


Out and Loud

by paradigmfinch



Series: Out and Loud [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conan trash talks Ellen, Dancer Sherlock, Falling In Love, Fanboy Sherlock Holmes, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Jealousy, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pop Star John Watson, Singer John Watson, balletlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8327521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradigmfinch/pseuds/paradigmfinch
Summary: John Watson is a 22 year old pop star who's about to come crashing out of the closet. Sherlock Holmes is a reluctant fanboy auditioning to dance in his next music video.





	1. Auditions

**Author's Note:**

> This began life, like so many things do, as a headcanon submitted to fuckyeahteenlock's tumblr. (They're the best.)

_Breathe, Sherlock_.

In…hold it…and _out_. Stretch. First position, second, third. This audition is just like any other.

(It’s not.)

This audition is to dance in John Watson’s next music video. John. _Watson_. Ex-teen heart throb singing sensation that Sherlock has had a hopeless fanboy crush on since he was thirteen and the Watson siblings burst into national awareness. With their twin blond heads, sparkling blue eyes and bright white smiles, it seemed like moments before they were touring the country with their album and guest starring in movies and television shows.

John Watson was probably (is definitely) the reason Sherlock figured out he was gay at such a young age. Sherlock had dragged Mycroft along to concerts, talked mummy’s ear off about John Watson’s charity involvement, and learned all the words to every album.

His obsession had certainly mellowed in the intervening years, but not his attraction to the blond boy-turned-man. Because when he had turned 18, John Watson’s contract had ended, he'd signed with a new label, and his image had changed completely. Harry Watson left the public eye and by age 20, John Watson is known as London’s bad-boy. Now, he features on magazine covers in nothing but red pants. He gets spotted around London clubs with a different partner every weekend. His music videos are darker, sexier. And he does it all looking unforgivably  _gorgeous_.

So just because Sherlock is no longer _obsessed_ with John Watson, doesn’t mean he didn’t jump at the chance to audition to dance with him when the call was posted: _Seeking: male dancer, dark hair, 18-24 years old._

After what feels like hours of stretching and fidgeting, the grey-haired man and older lady who had greeted Sherlock at the sign-in station enter the room. The man, Greg, calls, “Alright, everyone! You should’ve all had enough time to stretch, so let’s get started. Form two even lines, facing the mirror. But don’t worry, you’ll all get a chance to dance in front.”

Greg turns around to face the mirror as the dancers settle into place and the older lady takes a seat in the corner. Sherlock finds himself shuffled into the back row with a dancer at either elbow. There are perhaps twenty others who have answered today’s call, all of them extremely fit and in the same age bracket as Sherlock. Before he gets a chance to fixate on his poor chances of succeeding here, Greg has put on John Watson’s single, _Oh God Yes_ , and is calling out a dance combination.

He teaches fast, and Sherlock just has time to learn the combination and go in 5, 6, 7, _8._ There’s no room to worry, there's barely time to think. He forgets about the other dancers around him, and focuses on the extension of his arms, the rhythm in his feet and shoulders, the curve of his back as he dips backwards and snaps back to standing.

Before he knows it, the teaching round is over, and Sherlock has made it into an elimination round. He and four others are directed to the side of the studio to wait their turn while another five face the mirror and repeat the routine with Greg.

Sherlock tries to stay in the loose, relaxed place that physical activity leaves in his brain, but without the dancing, his mind wanders. Looking over the room, he notices that the large studio mirror is set directly into the wall, rather than being mounted with screws or brackets. _Two-way mirror?_  his mind wonders. If it is, anyone could be on the other side: talent scouts, producers, agents. Before the possibilities have fully processed, Sherlock’s group are invited back to face the mirror.

Sherlock is in the center of the room, squinting a little bit at his reflection, trying to see anything beyond the glass, but the studio is too brightly lit to tell for sure. He decides that just in case there _is_ somebody back there, he’s at least going to give them the performance of his lifetime. _This one’s for you, John._

It’s _5, 6, 7, 8_ , and he’s back in that gorgeous calm oasis of dance. He takes the moves out of his brain and into his toes, dances with everything he has, and lets the rest fall away. All he has are these moves and the way John Watson makes him feel.

After the choreographed dip, Sherlock lets his hands drag up his chest as he pulls back to standing, snaps his head away to the left and back towards the mirror, and winks. There’s sweat pouring down his neck and his heart rate is pleasantly elevated.  Nothing can stop him. When the song ends, Sherlock’s chest is heaving in exhilaration.

Greg tells them Watson’s label will be in touch soon, thanks them for their time, and dismisses them. Sherlock feels brilliant, all the nervousness of before burned away into excitement. He even smiles and chats a bit with another dancer as they gather their things to leave.

Sherlock shoulders his dance bag and turns right out of the studio, head already bent over his phone to compose an excited text to Molly (as he’d promised he would this morning), when a door suddenly opens forcibly into his side, and sends him tumbling to the ground.

Luckily, he catches himself in time not to hit his head, but his phone is not so lucky. He’s gathering its scattered pieces when he hears a woman’s voice.

“Oops,” it says dispassionately.

“Oh my God, are you alright?” says another voice. A tenor, honeyed, and tinged with concern.

Sherlock decides maybe he hit his head after all. Because that voice is familiar. In fact, it sounds just like the one that belongs to—

* * *

John Watson did not want to be here, but Irene had demanded. John, in turn, insisted that if he absolutely _must_ attend dance auditions, he would only do it in Mrs. Hudson’s basement studio, which had two-way glass that looked into an office / storage cupboard. For a pop-star, he values his privacy pretty highly.

It’s dim and dusty, but he has a good view of the talent without being ogled, and only Irene here to bug him.

After an hour, John is bored and just about ready to tell Irene she and Greg can choose whoever they like for the video when someone catches his eye. It’s just before the second elimination round, when a boy with a strange face and an absurdly curly head of hair has taken his place in front of the mirror (in front of John), and looks straight through the glass like he knows John is there. John even takes a step back in surprise.

“Can he-?” he asks Irene, glancing at her for confirmation. She makes an annoyed grunt noise that John takes to mean, ‘shut up, I’m busy,’ as the opening bars of _Oh God Yes_ pick up for the umpteenth time. John is sick of this one, written whilst he was stewing in sexual frustration over his producer’s son James. It hadn’t ended happily, and now the song leaves a sour taste in John’s mouth whenever he has to sing it.

There are five beautiful men in front of him, dancing the song with what looks to John like perfect technique, but the man right in front of John seems to have something _more_. Something powerful and intense in his body and gaze. It’s once again like he’s looking _through_ the mirror. And whatever he sees, he’s hungry for it. His body is lithe and flexible, and there are patches of sweat forming around the collar of his lilac shirt. When he snaps up from a dip and _winks_ straight at John, John takes another step back in surprise. The sharpness there sparkles, and John is overcome. His mouth waters a little bit, and he swallows noisily.

Next to him, Irene snorts. “My dear, darling, John. You are _so_ predictable.”

John turns his head in her direction, but doesn’t look away from the dancer. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the auditions? Not, you know, being your enigmatic and annoying self?”

“It would seem a decision has already been made.” John turns to Irene at last, and sees a Cheshire grin on her painted red lips. John is instantly wary.

“What?”

“You have a type. And it’s tall, dark, and aloof.”

“You just described yourself.”

“Did I include lesbian in that description?” Irene asks, eyes rolling. “Then I think I’m describing the eye-candy on the other side of that mirror.”

John doesn’t contradict her as he watches the end of auditions, sees the man shakes out his shirt, tip his head back to take long gulps of water, then gathers his things to leave.

“I think I might just go and say hello to our newest recruit! What do you say, John?” Irene calls, already heading for the door to the hall.

“Irene, no! Don't-“ They struggle for a moment at the door, but with an elbow to the gut, John staggers backwards and Irene throws open the door with a roll of her eyes.

There’s a thump, and a clatter from the other side. “Oops.”

John pushes Irene aside, and ( _of course_ ) there’s his dancer, in a heap on the floor, the pieces of his phone scattered all around him.

“Oh my God, are you alright?” John asks, bending to help him gather his things. When he offers the man the phone’s battery, he keeps his curly head ducked down, not moving. Very slowly, the dancer tilts his head up only to blink at John.

“Oh,” the dancer says.

“Hi,” answers John, struck dumb. He tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure it looks stupid, what with the way his eyes must be bugging, faced as they are with this gorgeous man’s intense gaze, flush cheeks, and frizzy curls.

“He means, hello I’m John Watson,” Irene says, loudly, after heaving a sigh.

John starts, feeling wrong footed as they both straighten.

“Yes! That’s me.” Sherlock is looking straight at John, his head tilted to one side, eyes intent. Is he confused? John probably sounds like a total prat, assuming the dancer recognizes him. “I mean, I am. John. Watson. Um. The singer? Which. You probably- might! Probably might know, if you’re auditioning! Which, you dance very well! We were watching. Through the mirror! Oh, God that probably sounds creepy. Is it creepy? I mean-” John would’ve gone on spilling out every word that came to his mind without anything like a filter had Irene not stepped forcefully on his foot.

“I’m Irene Adler. We were watching auditions through the two-way mirror in the studio. You had a very strong audition. What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes. And, thanks.”

“What styles of dance do you practice, Sherlock?” asks Irene, and the two of them begin what sounds like a discussion on the relative merits of ballet when it comes to the study of modern dance techniques.

Thank fuck for Irene Adler, because now the dancer, Sherlock, is looking at her instead of at John, which means John has a chance to breathe again. And sure, he’s standing here like an idiotic third wheel, shifting awkwardly from side to side while the two of them chatter on, but at least he’s not still sticking his foot in his mouth. John doesn’t remember a time, ever, when he has been this attracted to somebody this quickly. With James and Mary, he’d at least been able to form complete sentences.

As he contemplates this and admires Sherlock’s handsome face suffused with enthusiasm for the discussion at hand, Irene nudges him in the rib cage.

“Huh?” John asks. Good _God_ will the humiliation never end?

“I was just saying, Sherlock will be hearing from us soon. And then, hopefully, we’ll be hearing from him.” Irene raises an eyebrow at John pointedly.

“Yes. We’ll be in touch, very soon I’m sure.” John holds it together enough to reach out and shake Sherlock’s hand (hoping his palm isn’t too sweaty), and bid him goodbye. (He tilts his head down in a stupid little bow for a reason his brain does not understand).

The warm, firm grip of Sherlock Holmes’s hand leaves tingling aftershocks with John long after it’s ended.


	2. The Video

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contracts are signed and eventually, John Watson's new music video (Out and Loud) drops.

 

He feels under dressed. Maybe he should’ve worn the one with the tie after all, but he’d been nervous and the soft satin feel of his favorite purple button-down had been calling out to him.

Sherlock is seated on one side of a long conference table in a posh London office. On the other side, there’s John Watson, his agent Mrs. Hudson, choreographer Greg Lestrade, a lawyer, and several suits he assumes are higher-ups with John’s label.

There are five pages worth of legalese in front of him: a non-disclosure agreement for him to read through and initial on each page. It’s extremely tempting to just flip through and sign off, but despite how annoying he finds Mycroft, he knows his brother was right about reading through anything he puts his signature on. Sherlock wonders if these are standard in the industry, such stringent privacy agreements, that are nearly incomprehensible yet still manage to sound vaguely threatening.

When he finishes the last page, Sherlock looks up from the packet, sending a nervous smile to the people assembled opposite him. He clears his throat.

“I was told I would be offered a contract to sign when I came in today?” he asks, wishing he sounded more confident. _They_ were the ones who had approached _him_. Mere hours after his audition, in fact.

Mrs. Hudson exchanges a look with Lestrade and clears her throat before she speaks. “We’d…like for you to hear the song you would be co-starring in, before you sign anything else. It will likely clear up any confusion you may have regarding the NDA. And you should know, if the song in any way makes you uncomfortable, you can and should walk away from this table without further involvement with us.”

Sherlock nods, unsure what this is all about. John Watson is tapping his fingers nervously against the table, visibly anxious as Lestrade goes to the stereo system at the front of the room. “Only about 15 people in the world have heard this song. It’s a rough cut, but it’ll give you an idea.” Lestrade presses the start button and turns up the volume.

The opening arrangement is sparse, but compelling. A piano, a guitar, a drum kit. Sherlock is concentrating, trying to take in everything. Then there’s John’s voice, tenor and soft (Sherlock would know it anywhere). The lyrics are written with John’s signature prose, emotive and concise. He sings about hiding, limitations, fear and insecurity. It’s complex, but heartfelt, and sincerity aches in John’s voice:

_I’ve kept half of myself locked away_

_where it's dark, but safe_

Sherlock feels a swelling in his chest as the song builds steadily towards—something. He isn’t completely sure yet, but somehow he can _feel_ that this song is important.

After another stanza ends, John’s voice on the tape sings, _Don’t hold me down!_ and holds the note uncomfortably long, until the other instruments fade away, and there’s just his voice. As his voice, too, fades, there’s a moment of complete silence that feels heavy and thick all around him.

Then, a great surge of strings and winds, piping through the speakers and through Sherlock’s chest as John belts,

_I’m coming out, and loud!_

_I’m coming out, and proud!_

_I’ll shout it, out loud!_

_I’ll shout it, I’m proud!_

Sherlock jerks his head up to John, who is licking his lips, and glances away just as Sherlock looks at him. He feels frozen. Because it’s coming together. He knows exactly what this is. And his instinct was right. This means _everything_.

The song as a whole is stunning, a power-ballad for the marginalized, for the misunderstood, for the afraid. And there’s John Watson, looking shy and uncomfortable, like this isn’t the most courageous thing Sherlock could imagine anybody in John’s position doing.

The orchestra fades out, and it’s just John’s voice a Cappella, fingers snapping, as he sings through the refrain twice more. Like a prayer _._ And it’s over.

There are tears in Sherlock’s eyes. He has to swallow down a lump in his throat as he hears the silence in the room swell again.

“Where do I sign?” he asks.

* * *

“Hold the lift!” John shouts, and manages to shove an arm between the closing doors. They spring back open and there’s Sherlock Holmes, blinking down at him through long lashes. “Going down?” John asks, stepping into the elevator without waiting for an answer. It doesn't matter either way, he just wanted to catch Sherlock alone, without the agents and the other faceless men in suits breathing down their necks.

They descend slowly from the 32nd floor, both resolutely staring ahead. John reaches a hand to scratch the back of his neck. Maybe he should’ve thought this plan through a bit longer.

“I guess I just wanted to say, thanks. For doing this, being in the video. It means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to _you_?” Sherlock almost shouts, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how much this is going to mean to _everyone_? Anyone who’s queer, or questioning, or afraid to come out, or, _anything_. What it’s going to mean that A-list celebrity John Watson is- well, bi I suppose, going by the song. Or pan?”

“Yeah,” John manages. “Um, I would say, um. I’m bi? Is it crazy that I’ve only actually said that aloud to about three people and you’re one of them?”

There’s something bright and a little wild in Sherlock’s eyes as he answers, “Yes! That is a little crazy! Considering you’re about to tell about a billion people at once next month!”

John can’t help but laugh a bit at that. “This is going to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you once went on live television and asked Beyoncé to marry you.”

When the elevator doors open out onto the lobby, they reveal two young men bent nearly double, one clutching the other’s shoulder for support, the other wiping a tear from his eye.

John suddenly cannot wait to film this video. It seems a bit less scary, with this brilliant boy who really  _gets it_ by his side.

* * *

Between learning choreography and shooting the video, Sherlock only spends about a week and a half on the actual production of _Out and Loud_. The rest of the month leading up to its release, he spends avoiding Molly at all costs. Sherlock is certain that if Molly manages to corner him somewhere private, he will break his contract and tell her every little detail.

But finally, _finally,_ it’s almost time. He and Molly are in Sherlock’s sitting room, his laptop hooked up to the television.

“Hit refresh!”

“I’ve already hit it about a dozen times in the last minute. The router is going to explode, Sherlock!” Molly sounds extremely irritated, obviously still miffed at having been ignored so thoroughly this past month. _(“For the millionth time, they made me sign an NDA!” “Who am I going to tell? My cat?!”)_ It really _is_ a little unfair, considering a mutual love of John Watson was the reason Sherlock and Molly became friends all those years ago.

“Oh my God, oh my God it’s loading!” Molly shrieks.

Vibrating with nervous tension, Sherlock shushes her, eyes locked on the screen.

The opening frames were filmed in black and white. John Watson is centered, at the back wall of a warehouse. He’s wearing a heavy parka, hands in his pockets and eyes hidden by the pulled down hood. The opening chords begin, and John Watson’s breath is visible as he breathes evenly (added in post-production: in reality that warehouse had been miserable and sweltering in the middle of July).

As John begins to sing, he pulls the hood back from his face, and strips off the parka. With every measured step he takes towards the camera, another layer of clothing is removed. A windbreaker, several jumpers, a zip up hoodie. Color starts to bleed in, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it, as the jib sweeps around John.

Irene saunters into frame, slow and sexy all in black, and pulls John into a dance as he continues to remove layers. He looks like he’s enjoying the dance, but gets distracted, glances over his shoulder.

“God this is gorgeous. Was the entire thing done in one take?” Molly asks, hushed.

Sherlock hums in the affirmative. “We had to do it about a hundred times.”

Then Sherlock walks into frame, also dressed in black, looking suitably aloof with his cheekbones and wild hair, just as Sherlock had hoped he would. Irene spins John around and gives him a shove towards Sherlock, who catches him, runs his hands down John’s sides, grips the bottom of his red hoodie, and pulls it off, leaving John in just a white t shirt.

By this point, Molly is nearing a panic attack. “WHAT. OH MY GOD, WHAT IS HAPPENING. THAT IS YOU, SHERLOCK, WITH YOUR HANDS ON JOHN WATSON’S BODY. FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK.”

“Shush! Or you’ll miss it!” cries Sherlock.

Down to just his loose white tee and black jeans, John steps back into the center of the shot, as Irene and Sherlock frame him on either side a few feet behind him.

_“Don’t hold me down!”_ sings John on screen, eyes piercing through the screen, face fierce and determined (it’s sexy as all hell). There’s the drawn-out note, then just John’s chest heaving, complete silence as he and Molly stop breathing.

The orchestral arrangement crashes through the stereo system, and John thrusts out his arms to either side as the grey warehouse wall behind him explodes into bright light, cobalt blue at the bottom and fuchsia spilling down from the top, alighting a fiery bisexual pride flag as John belts,

_I’m coming out, and loud!_

_I’m coming out, and proud!_

_I’ll shout it, out loud!_

_I’ll shout it, I’m proud!_

“FUCK! FUCK FUCK! SHERLOCK WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!” Molly physically side-tackles Sherlock into the couch, her eyes still glued to the screen as Sherlock laughs, pure joy emanating through him. This might be the best thing he’s ever felt.

Most of the rest of the video is drowned out by Molly shout-sobbing in confused happiness, but Sherlock keeps quiet, grinning as he watches the routine he’s been doing in his sleep for a fortnight. On screen, he and Irene are trading John back and forth to dance with each of them a few times. Then some choreographed moves that all three of them do, a slow jib shot climbing over their heads. Sherlock’s favorite moment (and likely Molly’s, going by the squeal) is when he and Irene grab a fistful each of John’s shirt from either side and physically rip it from his body. John is _fit_ , and it shows on camera as much as it had in person: no air-brushing required.

As the instruments fade away and John sings the chorus a Capella, Irene and Sherlock make their exits to either side. John is left, hair mussed, chest and soul bared as he snaps along to the end of the final chorus, the warehouse aglow in bisexual pride lights. He finishes the song, smiles slowly, and winks at the camera. With another snap of his fingers, the screen snaps to black, and the production credits appear on screen.

“Well, what did you-“ Sherlock starts to ask Molly, but this time she shushes him, and Sherlock sees why in an instant. The screen is showing John again, shoulders more relaxed and face loose as he looks somewhere off-camera. “How was that, then?” John asks. “Did we get it?” Claps and cheers are heard from behind the lens, and John breaks into a whoop. “C’mon you two, we’re gonna group hug this out right now!” he calls, and Sherlock and Irene skip-run back into screen, crashing into John from either end. He throws one arm over Irene’s shoulders and another around Sherlock’s waist.

“Do you think they’ll get it?” John says, turning mock-serious as he looks between Sherlock and Irene, obviously joking.

_Oh God, please cut it here, please cut it here!_ Sherlock prays, but no one is listening.

“If they don’t, they’re idiots.” Sherlock huffs, the audio barely catching his deep voice through John’s microphone. Irene snorts, John giggles, and on-screen and off, Sherlock pretends not to smile as he watches John laugh (he probably isn't convincing anybody). Then the screen goes black, and this time it’s actually over.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Molly says beside him, and he turns to find her glowering at him. “You are going to tell me _everything_. Starting with a confirmation that John FUCKING WATSON just came out! ON YOUTUBE! And you were THERE?”

“Um. Yes?” Sherlock says. Molly Hooper gets dangerous when she’s immersed in fannish glee. This is most certainly one of those times.

When Sherlock’s parents get home from their dinner an hour later, they find Sherlock carrying Molly around the sitting room on his back, both of them screaming along to the music video playing at full volume. Because it feels like a bloody  _miracle_ , to the only two queer kids for about fifty miles in any direction, that John Watson just came out of the closet. With fucking _style_.

“What is all this screaming about, then?” Mummy Holmes asks, mild, as she puts down her purse on the kitchen table and walks into the living room with hands on hips.

“JOHN WATSON IS BISEXUAL!” screams Molly, because this obviously cannot be declared at a lower register.

“Yes dear, Sherlock told us about that weeks ago.” Sherlock is shaking his head at his mother and making vigorous cut throat motions, but mummy ignores him.

“WHAT?” screams Molly, even louder as she slides off Sherlock’s back only to give him a firm punch in the shoulder. “You told your parents but avoided me for a month?”

“Well I had to tell _somebody._ And they don’t know how the internet works!”

“I have a Aol account,” says his dad.

“Precisely.” Sherlock nods his head, solemn. He raises an eyebrow at Molly. “You see what I mean?”

“Fine,” she huffs. “But from now on, you tell me everything. Is there any _other_ life-changing news regarding a certain pop star that I need to know about?”

Sherlock bites his lip. “I might be…going on the North America tour with them this autumn? As a sort of…principal dancer? A bit?”

Molly tackles him onto the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will probably be up in about a week! thanks so much to everyone who's left their support on this story <3


	3. First Concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fly to Boston for the first Out and Loud concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! 
> 
> Warning: this AU contains light homophobia that is drowned out by a deluge of love and rainbow flags.

There are a handful of protesters screaming and waving signs when mummy pulls their car onto the airfield. In the seat beside him, Molly squeezes Sherlock’s hand. His dad shakes his head and mutters darkly that the protesters should ‘get a hobby.’

Mummy gasps as they follow a traffic director up alongside a small plane, “Oh, darling, look!”

There’s a crowd waiting on the tarmac: a boisterous group of John Watson fans lined up, squealing and clapping loud enough to be heard through half an inch of glass. Normally Sherlock would be irritated by the chaos, but not this time. The fans are all wearing or waving rainbow flags of one sort or another, and holding up signs that say, “WE LOVE YOU JOHN WATSON” and “THANKS FOR BEING OUT AND LOUD.”

Sherlock is luckily ignored by the crowd when he gets out of the car to study them. Unlike the picketers outside, each and every person that Sherlock sees here is laughing or has a smile on their face as they await a sighting of John Watson.

They don’t have to wait long. The crowd bursts into shrieks and applause as a sleek black car pulls up in front of them and, sure enough, John gets out, clad in dark sunglasses and jeans. Sherlock and his family just watch from a distance as John takes selfies with fans and signs posters, completely ignoring the security guard closely monitoring the group.

“Well then,” Sherlock’s dad finally says from behind him. “This is it, then?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I would’ve been off for another semester at Uni anyways. Don’t be so sentimental.”

“My darling boy!” cries Mummy, in complete disregard for what he’s just said. “All grown up and now going on the road with a famous singer! I’m so proud of you. As long as you remember your promise.” The teary façade clears and she gazes sharply down at him. 

“Yes, mummy. I’ll still finish my degree, and I won’t get caught up in ‘any of that celebrity nonsense that the tabloids are always on about.’ I’m just off to see a bit of the world, and I get to dance while I do it.”

“And spend some time with that John Watson of yours.” Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but she talks louder. “Don’t try to be coy, sweetheart, he _is_ quite dishy. You could do worse.” Sherlock scoffs, but otherwise ignores the insinuation.

“I should probably be getting on the plane, then.”

Molly hands Sherlock his case and his violin with a tight hug. Mummy makes him promise yet again to call him from every city. His dad offers a simple but heartfelt, “Take care of yourself, son.”

Sherlock feels it when Molly stiffens beside him.

“Oh my God he’s coming over here, Sherlock! What do I do?”

“He’s just a person, Molly.” The words leave Sherlock before he’s fully considered them. It’s startling, to realize how true they are. Years spent idolizing John Watson, and it all came crashing down during a month’s rehearsals with the real man. What was the exact moment he stopped being John Watson and became just John? He’ll have to contemplate this later, because beside him Molly is hyperventilating, and in front of him a smiling John is approaching, tailed at a distance by a pair of security guards.

“Sherlock! Glad to see you haven’t missed the flight.”

“You’re the one who’s twenty minutes late.”

“Ah, well. Had to greet my adoring public and all that.” John clears his throat and glances curiously towards Molly and his parents.

“Right! John Watson, this is my best friend, Molly Hooper-”

Molly nearly shouts over him in her excitement. “H-hi! I’m Molly. I love you. I MEAN, I loved _Out and Loud_! And you, in it, obviously. And Sherlock. In it.” (Sherlock discreetly steps on her foot to get her to shut up. She’ll thank him later.)

John has a disarmingly genuine smile on his face. “Thank you, I’m so glad you liked it. It’s just about my favorite too, at the moment. And Sherlock of course, is brilliant in it.”

“I’m brilliant at everything,” Sherlock declares.

“Sherlock!” his mother scolds, with a swat to the back of his head.

“And these are my mother and father,” Sherlock continues. “Margaret and Siger Holmes. Mummy and dad, this is John Watson.”

“Yes,” his dad says. “I recognize you from Sherlock’s—“

“Music video!” Sherlock shouts, before he’s further incriminated. “He recognizes you from the music video. Anyway, I think it’s about time to say goodbye and get on the plane.” Sherlock takes his cases in one hand and John’s upper arm in the other and drags the man away.

“Take good care of my boy, Mr. Watson!” shouts his mother from behind him. Sherlock turns to scowl at her, but his gaze is caught by the sight of John Watson nodding seriously back at his mother.

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Holmes. I’ll get him back to you in one piece.”

The second they’re on the plane and out of view of the Holmes entourage, however, John turns to him with a shit-eating grin. “Mummy?” he asks.

“Shut up,” says Sherlock, _not_ blushing. He stows away his cases and gets settled in a seat in front of a sleeping Irene while John greets the dancers and personnel already on board. He’s surprised (but not displeased) when, moments later, John drops into the seat beside him.

“Would you look at that? My seat’s right next to yours!” John says, feigning surprise.

“This is a private aeroplane, there are no assigned seats.”

“Hush up and sit next to me, Berk.” He says ‘berk’ like a term of endearment, and Sherlock can’t help but forego a retort in favor of smiling down at him. He’s missed John, and it’s only been a week off. As he just looks at John for a few moments, and John doesn’t look away, Sherlock feels his heart beat pick up.

“Hi,” John says to him after a quiet while.

“Hi?” Sherlock asks, feeling a little shy.

“So. Those were your parents?” John asks.

“Obviously.”

“They seemed so…ordinary.”

“As opposed to…?” Sherlock asks.

John looks away from Sherlock and begins to rifle through the magazines in the seatback in front. “Well, their son is rather…extra-ordinary.”

Sherlock feels heat rising in his neck, and looks for a change in subject. “Is it always like that? Your fans, all the screaming and such?”

John laughs. “Yes, but with less rainbows. Well, you’ll see it for yourself, but actually I’m usually more popular in America. It’s the British bad-boy vibe I give off, you see. Those American birds, they can’t help but fall for it every time.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

The engine rumbles more loudly as it taxis out onto the runway. Sherlock watches out the window as they accelerate and lift off. That peculiarly thrilling moment of leaving the Earth’s gravity swings through his stomach, and they’re on their way.

Once they’ve settled into a level flying pattern, John turns to him with a serious look.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s mostly an image? All that ‘bad-boy’ nonsense?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies simply. John startles, his eyebrows raising in question. “Well, the papers are often reporting one thing or another about your drug habit, this binge or that, but I’ve been out with you and the other dancers for dinner on three separate occasions and haven’t seen you drink more than half a beer. You haven’t taken home any one night stands either, another thing the tabloids love to speculate over. I haven’t even seen you flirt with anyone, female or male or otherwise.”

“Haven’t you?” John mutters, but he drags in a deep breath to continue speaking so Sherlock disregards the comment. “You’ve caught me out. Course you have, you’re bloody brilliant, Mr. _I was studying chemistry at Oxford before I decided to drop out and pursue my dream of becoming John Watson’s principle dancer_ \--”

“That’s quite a lengthy surname. Also inaccurate on several counts, but go on.”

John chuckles. “Changing my image was Irene’s idea. She told me I could either be Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus.”

Sherlock nods. “Two stars who began their careers early in life, both of whom have pursued their career outside of the public persona previously established for themselves.”

“Irene put it differently. She said I could either be the jerk or the slut.”

Sherlock chokes, and tries to cover it with a cough. “Irene?” he manages.

“Back when the Watsons were together, me, Harry and Irene were tutored together. Irene’s dad is a bigshot producer, specializes in child performers. He ‘discovered’ me and Harry, and he was our agent before I hired Mrs. H. So, when the Watsons travelled, Irene was on tour with us. When our contract with her dad ended, Irene convinced me I had to do something if I wanted to get out from behind the innocent blue-eyed kid thing I had going. And since I don’t fancy getting arrested and being a regular bigot, she had me watching Miley Cyrus videos like it was my job. The playboy image is, well…I’ve only really had one serious relationship my whole life... And coming out, being able to do it in a big, public way? And to do it without it being a punchline? That was our goal. And that’s where you joined the story. Luckily, now that _that_ subject is taking a significant amount of press attention, I can ease off on the serial dating and ‘leaked’ naked photographs.”

“ _You_ leaked those?” Sherlock asks, and immediately regrets it. He hurries on, resolutely ignoring John’s smug look. “Well, it’s all very clever. You’ve shaken the industry, gotten news coverage from every major outlet, and the album for _Out and Loud_ is still at the top of the charts. Plus, if you do decide to take advantage of your newfound notoriety, you’re in a position at the moment of being able to seduce literally any queer person under 40 who’s single or non-monogamous.”

“I know a few lesbians who’d disagree with that.”

“Hear, hear!” says Irene from behind them. Sherlock startles, and cranes his neck around to see Irene has her eyes closed again. “Christ, I thought she was sleeping?” he says.

John chuckles. “One thing you’ll learn, young Sherlock, is that saying the word,” John leans in and whispers, “’ _lesbian’_ around Irene Adler is like saying Voldemort during the second wizarding war. No matter where she is, she’ll find you.”

Sherlock looks at John for a long moment. “John I have a very serious question.”

“What?”

“Are you, in fact, secretly a gigantic nerd?” He asks gravely.

 “Hey! I was on tour for more than half a decade with only my sister and Irene for company. I got a lot of reading done.”  There’s a soft blush warming John’s tan cheeks though, so Sherlock teases him a bit more.

“Forget the bisexual thing. What is the world going to say when John Watson comes out as a fanboy? The world deserves to know, John.”

“As if you aren’t! It’s not just Molly, is it? _You’re_ a John Watson fan. I’d bet a hundred quid.”

“And what gives you that idea?”

“I heard you singing the lyrics to _Bit Not Good_ , all correctly and in the right order, which even I can’t do half the time. And your best friend is obviously a fan. You’d seen the leaked photos, and you know all about my press history! Admit it. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a _fan_.”

Sherlock huffs, feeling playful. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anything, I'm a Trev-Whore.”

 John clutches a hand to his chest dramatically. “You would choose Victor Trevor over me? That ponce doesn’t even write his own lyrics!”

“What can I say, John? The man can dance.”

John mutters something about ‘Trev-Whores’ and ‘show you who can dance’ under his breath, but Sherlock ignores it. He settles back against his seat with a small smile and shuts his eyes, ready for some sleep during the long flight to Boston.

* * *

John jerks awake from his doze as they begin their descent towards Boston. There is a tickle under his nose and the warm, heavy weight of Sherlock’s head on his shoulder. Fondness washes through John at the sensation, at hearing the tiny snuffling noises his friend makes with each breath. He doesn’t get the chance to revel in it long, though, because when the wheels scrape the ground, Sherlock jerks awake.

“Morning sleepy-head,” John murmurs. “Welcome to America.”

Sherlock hums, stretches out a crick in his neck, and ignores him. With a sigh, John gathers his bags and prepares to depart the plane. When they reach a stop, John exits to find an enormous purple bus waiting for them.

“What the bloody hell is that,” comes a flat voice from behind him.

“That, would be our tour bus, Mr. Holmes,” answers Irene’s voice. The three of them walk together to appraise it.

“My face is on a bus.”

“Yep.”

“Get used to it.”

It’s a nice image. John is center, arms crossed over a white tee, dark stare gazing at the camera. On either side, Irene and Sherlock are in profile: Sherlock gripping his bicep and Irene whispering something in his ear. The three of them were shot in black and white while the words _Out and Loud_ are splashed in enormous blue and pink lettering across them.

“On the bus, everyone quickly!” Mrs. Hudson begins to swat those nearest to her onto the bus. “The show tonight starts in just under six hours and we’ve got plenty to do before then.”

* * *

Ten minutes out from the beginning of the show and John is starting to feel the delicious rush of pre-show jitters. Boston is very LGBT friendly (according to Irene), and the shouts from fans are audible in the dressing rooms below the TD Garden.

John shakes out some of his excited nerves, grinning enormously when he sees Irene approach, dressed in a green dressing gown, the red-sequined number underneath more suitable for under the warmth of stage lights than a chilly basement.

Irene doesn’t return the smile. “Could you talk to Sherlock? Something’s up, and we’re meant to be in places soon.”

John draws his brows together, but makes for the dressing room without further comment. Sherlock is the only one seated there, vigorously applying stage makeup, an intense glare whipping up to John when he approaches from behind.

“Did Irene send you? As I told her, I am _fine_.”

He holds up his hands, palms out. “Never said you weren’t. You ready for the show then?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snarls.

Placing a cautious hand on each of Sherlock’s shoulders, John waits for the man to make eye contact with him in the mirror. When their gazes finally meet, Sherlock slumps and lets out an enormous breath.

“It’s okay to be nervous. You’ve danced in front of people before, yeah?”

Sherlock’s voice is quiet. “Not 20,000 at once.”

John gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Listen. You’re going to get out there, get lost in the music, and dance. It’s just like rehearsal, except a bit louder. And no matter what happens, you can trust me. I’ve got you.” He locks eyes with Sherlock and wills him to see how earnest he is.

“…okay. Let’s go.” With a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, John guides him to where Irene is already waiting in the trap room, ready to be raised onto the stage.

From the second that they breach the stage, blinded by lights and deafened by cheers, that exhilarating _something_ rushes through John until he’s in a place of utter ecstasy.

As they begin the set, he keeps half an eye on Sherlock, but everything is fine (just as John suspected it would be). The dancer has his signature look of intense seriousness fixed on his face.

Several songs later, the thudding beat of _Thrill of the Chase_ begins to pound through the speakers, and the air thickens. The song is a blatant seduction, full of predatory imagery: it’s about a hunt, a primal, animalistic pursuit, and the anticipation of pleasure upon capture.

Greg had understood the intent behind the song without being told, and had come up with some daring choreography to suit. It’s John and Sherlock alone on the stage, John circling, and Sherlock watching, his moves both cautious and coy.

As rehearsed, John stalks Sherlock across the stage. Each step forward is matched by Sherlock’s step back. They’re never more than two inches apart, heat boiling between their bodies. During the music break, John spins Sherlock around in his arms and dances against him, the two of them simulating a shared dance in a club. The audience _screams_.

When the next verse begins and Sherlock turns to face John again, there’s a wild smile on his face, which John returns around the lyrics he’s singing. His heart is pounding, more than it ever did in rehearsal, as he pulls Sherlock’s head down for the final beat of the song, lips almost touching. If John thought the audience couldn’t scream any louder, they do.

(John is too busy panting and grinning up at an equally delighted looking Sherlock to care.)

* * *

The big finale of the show is _Out and Loud_. It’s been remixed for live performance to have an explosive ending, rather than the slow a Cappella of the radio version. For the final chorus, the entire ensemble rips off their outer black layer to reveal a head to toe ensemble, each in a designated color of the rainbow.

The pride flags in the audience go wild as he bows with the rest of the dancers, and Sherlock can’t keep the smile off his face (at this point, he’s going to develop laugh-lines, which is…acceptable, under the circumstances). 

Everyone waves and they chase one another backstage. Sherlock is taking a long drink of water when the familiar weight of John tackles him into a hug.

“Not so bad after all. It’s pretty good, innit?” John has to shout to be heard over the still-cheering crowd.

Sherlock has cause again to roll his eyes at this man. “I finally get it.”

“Get what, genius?”

“Why the traditional, properly British, buttoned-up John I’ve gotten to know this summer pursues a career as a popstar.”

John smirks, and crosses his arms. “Enlighten me.”

“I didn’t understand before: your stage persona is so different from the real you. It’s all about ‘the thrill.’ _You_ , sir, are an adrenaline junkie.”

John tosses his head back and laughs, eyes sparkling. “You got me there. There’s nothing better in the world than this.” John jerks his head back towards the stage where a chant of, “Encore!” has begun.

“You hear them Mr. Watson.” Mrs. Hudson appears and passes John an acoustic guitar. “Get your tush back out there. Three songs should do it.”

With a wink, John shoulders the guitar and walks back on stage to enormous applause.

Sherlock leans against a post and watches John from offstage. He’s bathed in blue light, balanced on a stool with his head ducked and eyes closed, as he sings _People Like You_ , the song famously about his breakup with Mary Morstan. Sherlock suspects that much of John’s reported-upon past is true, and that Mary was the “one serious relationship” John had referred to on the aeroplane. He doesn’t need much more evidence than the lyrics of this song. They’re heartbreaking: a story of betrayal, loss and the failure to forgive.

He’s hit again with the knowledge that he is in way too deep here. John isn’t just _John Watson_ anymore. Sure, he has the same name, the same face, the same voice. But the John that Sherlock has gotten to know is a real, three dimensional person. He likes soft jumpers and picks the sprouts out of his pad thai and calls his sister every morning, whether or not she picks up. He’s smart, and brave, and generous, and kind, and there’s only one thing that Sherlock can conclude from all this evidence.

Onstage, John nods along with the song. Phones sway side to side in the audience like lighters. John lets a small, nostalgic smile slip through the mask of pain.

And Sherlock is falling for John.

 _Oh, fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count has increased on this story because I have too many ideas...
> 
> If you have ideas for any John Watson original song titles, leave them in the comments!
> 
> For reference, so far I've got: 
> 
> Out and Loud  
> Oh God Yes  
> Bit Not Good  
> Thrill of the Chase  
> People Like You


	4. Kashmir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pines. Sherlock surprises and delights with his undiscovered violin talents.

It’s the early hours of the morning after a performance in Saint Louis, and John is splayed out on his bed, Irene on her phone in an armchair nearby.

After some performances, John goes out like a light. After others, the frenzy of it all keeps him wide awake for hours, and this is one of those nights. John traces the swirled contours of the ceiling plaster with his eyes and sighs.

Irene is typing furiously. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

John listens to the rhythm, and sighs _._

Irene lets out a sudden groan. “For fucks sake, out with it already, Watson. What’s on your mind?”

John tips his head sideways to see that Irene has slammed down her phone and is looking at him sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at the ceiling and periodically sighing every thirty seconds for the last hour. You obviously need my attention for something... Is it _lover boy_ again?”

“Don’t call him that.”

Irene snorts. “That’s a yes.”

John heaves in a breath to sigh, but catches himself at the last moment. He lets it out in a vocal gust. “It…might be.”

“I have no clue what you're waiting for. We’ve been on tour for six weeks and you haven’t made a move.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Well for one, he’s completely out of my league.”

Irene looks at him like he’s unfathomably stupid. “John. You have a Grammy and are a literal millionaire, not to mention voted Sexiest Man Alive.”

“None of that matters! He’s a genius who studies chemistry at _Oxford_ and can dance and play the violin, and can read your entire life story in a single glance! Not to mention he’s drop-dead bloody gorgeous. He's not interested. When you forget all the fame stuff, I’m just…some bloke. With an average face, no college education, and an inability to stop writing soppy love songs.”

Irene sighs for him this time. “You’re not.”

A responding groan. “I _am._ I’ve written three about him and how bloody gorgeous and impossible he is and how gone I am. Another two about unrequited love. And I’ve started one about his fucking childhood _dog_. All of them in about a month! They don’t have full melodies yet, but the words, the sentiments…I spend time with him and they lyrics are just all there, right on the surface. I haven’t written this much, this often since…”

Irene inclines her head in understanding. “Since Mary.”

“Yeah.”

A longer pause. “Dare I ask what they’re called, these sorrowful chart-toppers?”

John grimaces. “Most of them are on the cheesy side.”

“When aren’t they?” Irene quickly ducks a pillow launched at her head.

Despite the wisecrack, John digs around in his suitcase for the secret notebook he keeps. Once tossed to Irene, John flops down on the bed and covers his eyes.

“ _’The Madman’, ‘Singing in Pink’, ‘The Fall’, ‘Deduce Me’, ‘Redbeard’._ Oh, John. You really _are_ gone on him.”

John lets out a tortured groan, and drops his arms from his eyes to either side.

“Drama queen.”

“I’m a famous musician, I’m entitled to some drama.”

Irene looks up from the notebook and tilts her head towards the wall behind her. “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

Irene flaps a hand at John. “ _Shhh._ Listen.”

John sits up. The strains of a string instrument gradually filter more clearly into the room. It’s obviously coming from Sherlock next door. It seems he and Irene aren’t the only ones awake tonight.

The sound starts quiet, just a buzz of notes, and begins to climb in intensity and volume.

Grabbing her phone in one hand, Irene slides off the armchair and pads over to the door that joins the two rooms. John joins her, and presses an ear to the door: he’s never heard Sherlock play this one before. He recognizes it from school – it’s the one about a bumblebee.

Irene takes the knob of the door and turns it before John can stop her, then slowly inches the door open a couple of inches. Sherlock’s thin figure is facing away from them, dressing gown swaying and frizzy hair bouncing with each violent stroke against his violin strings. The song is fierce and fast, so fast that Sherlock vibrates with it.

A moment later, Sherlock gives a violent drag along the strings with the bow and lets out a wordless shout of frustration.

“You okay?” John asks before he remembers that they’re not supposed to be in here.

Sherlock spins around, taking the violin off his shoulder and pointing his bow out like a weapon.

“What are you doing– are you _recording_ me?”

John looks down and sees that Irene has her phone out and _is_ , predictably, filming.

“Must you have that bloody phone out all the time, Irene?”

Irene straightens from her crouch and shrugs, apparently unashamed to have been caught. “There’s a reason I have more Twitter followers than you, John, and it’s not because of my pretty singing voice.”

John blinks. “I have a Twitter account?” he asks.

“Exactly. But back to important matters, since we’ve already interrupted." Irene approaches Sherlock, phone first. "Sherlock! John Watson's elusive, mysterious dancer Sherlock Holmes. My loyal followers are ever so curious about you.”

Sherlock looks baffled. “They are? That’s…bizarre.”

“Didn't you know? The three of us even have a ship name, since the video for _Out and Loud_ came out. We’re ‘Adlockson.’ 

Sherlock’s confusion slips into an mischievous smile. “Well in that case, what would they like to know?” he licks his lips and looks into the camera.

 _Bastard_. Sherlock knows how awkward John gets over the thought of his fictional online identity. He loves his followers, of course, but they’re just so… _creative_. Irene has forwarded John a truly _astonishing_ number of angry sex scenes between himself and Victor Trevor.

Irene grins. “Excellent! We’ll start with an easy one. What’s the deal with the violin?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep, and the violin helps me gets my thoughts in order.”

“The angry bumblebee song makes you think _clearer_?” Johns asks, disbelieving. Irene shifts so that John and Sherlock will both be in her frame.

“It’s _Flight of the Bumblebee_. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.” Sherlock snaps. “Why? What would you have me play instead?”

John grins sideways, and hops up onto the table in Sherlock’s room. “Well…know any Watson?”

Sherlock scoffs. “As if I would use a ten-thousand-pound violin to play _‘I Wanna Get Off With Sarah’_. That would be a sin.”

John puts on a hurt expression. “Ouch. You only play the old classical stuff, then?”

Sherlock smirks, lifting the violin under his chin once again. “Now, now, I didn’t say that.”

With a dramatic arc of his arm, the bow lands on the strings and Sherlock launches into the unmistakable first bars of _Kashmir_.

Irene whoops, raising her phone high.

“NO WAY!” John nearly shouts. “ _Led_ fucking _Zeppelin_? Where'd you learn this?”

Sherlock smiles, but keeps on with playing as he speaks louder. “My dad. To quote him, _'I have a gay genius son who does ballet, has thirty IQ points on me, and plays the violin instead of guitar. I love you dearly, but the least you can do is play me some decent music.’_ ”

John laughs, tamping down delighted giggles as he instinctively joins in the first words of _Kashmir_.

_“Oh let the sun beat down on my face, stars to fill my dream. I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been.”_

He imitates Robert Plant’s iconic, whining voice, and begins to tap some percussion along the table beneath him. Irene calls out directions like she’s Stephen Spielberg and when John doesn’t know the words, he just watches in awe as Sherlock transforms into an honest to God rock-star before his eyes, on the unlikeliest of instruments.

When John runs out of lyrics entirely, Sherlock puts down his violin. The tension in his shoulders from earlier is all but gone.

“Bloody hell,” John says, shaking his head. “How am I the famous one? That was _brilliant_.”

“Mr. Holmes will be pleased to hear it.” They smile at each other, Sherlock’s small but sincere.

“Listen up, folks!” Irene cries suddenly, breaking the moment as she turns herself around and points the camera (that John had forgotten about) so all three of them will fit in the frame. “If this video gets half a million hits in the next seven days, we’ll add _Kashmir_ to one of our Midwestern sets! Vote in the comments for which city you want to see it in.”

“Um.”

“Hang on, Mrs. Hudson might-”

“Shhh, boys. Irene is speaking. Ahem. Ireniacs, Wat-heads, Sherlovers, do _not_ let me down.”

“Sher- _what?_ ” Sherlock looks to John, completely bewildered.

Irene winks and ends the recording.

“That was fun, boys! I think I’ll go to sleep.”

John and Sherlock are left alone in the room. It’s quiet without Irene’s boisterousness, and suddenly awkward.

Sherlock looks at John for a few moments. John clears his throat.

He sticks his thumb in the direction of his own room. “Sorry for derailing your night. I’m just gonna…” John backs out without finishing his sentence, leaning against the door as he shuts himself into the privacy of his own room.

* * *

The video has a million hits within the week.

On the stage in Minneapolis, they’re performing ‘ _Beg for Mercy (Twice)’._ Sherlock is in his favorite costume for this number: a loose fitting graphic tank top, skinny jeans, and studded trainers.

It’s all going according to rehearsal until the music break, when John disappears entirely. Odd. He should be front and center. Glancing to dancers on either side of him, Sherlock doesn’t find confused expressions: only smug ones.

A resigned horror settles over Sherlock, but he forces himself to continue the choreography.

When the instrumental section ends and John is supposed to be on stage singing the next chorus, the music abruptly cuts as the dancers around Sherlock march to the back of the stage. Sherlock begins to follow them, but their small crowd parts and something John-shaped pushes through, causing Sherlock to stumble back a few steps.

The audience shrieks, and the number of cell phones in the air filming them seems to double instantly.

Sherlock can see why.

This is not the John that Sherlock knows. It’s not even the concert personality that Sherlock has worked with these past couple of months.

There’s the clothes, first of all. He’s in a horrendous polka dot blouse that's been unbuttoned nearly down to his belly button, bell bottom jeans, and loafers.

But that’s not the worst part. On John’s head is a long, curly, blond wig. And on his face is the biggest, smuggest grin Sherlock has ever seen as he raises his fists and twirls around for the cheering crowd.

John walks up to the standing microphone center stage. “For those of you following our social media page, I think you know what’s about to happen here.”

Cheers explode as the audience around them shakes in excitement. Sherlock tries half-heartedly to walk past John and escape backstage, but John’s arm reaches out and snags him around the waist.

“Not so fast there, Sher. We have some business to attend to. Irene?” John calls.

Irene emerges from the crowd of dancers with a blue electric violin and – an equally horrifying long curly-haired brown wig in hand.

Sherlock gives Irene a death glare when she raises the offerings to him. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Irene smirks. “Relax. It’ll be painless. Mostly. Just have some fun!” Sherlock crosses his arms, jaw stubborn.

John leans into the mic. “Looks like Sherlock needs some convincing. Show him some love, Minneapolis!”

Ear-splitting cries and applause explode, and Sherlock whips away from Irene to stare, utterly bemused, at the audience.

 _“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.”_ The chant starts slowly, but grows in conviction and volume. “ _Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!”_ The drummer adds a beat, John and Irene add their voices into the microphone. Sherlock does a full turn to take it all in, dazed and a bit afraid at the cries.

“ _SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK!”_

Sherlock can recognize the inevitable, and turns to Irene with a sigh and accepts the blue violin and bow to a blast of screams and applause.

 “I’m going to get you for this!” Sherlock screams at her over the noise as he lifts the violin to his shoulder and taps the mic before giving it a quick tune.

“I look forward to it!”

Sherlock tries to duck the wig (to laughs from the audience) but she’s too quick, and Sherlock resigns himself fully to his fate. He makes eye contact with John, who is grinning delightedly at him from under his own curly wig.

Sherlock steps towards John and speaks into his ear, “You couldn’t have given me a heads-up?” 

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Sherlock groans, but can’t deny the building excitement surrounding and within him. John is not the only one who enjoys an occasional rush of adrenaline.

“On your cue, then.” Sherlock says as he gets into position.

John grins, and screams into the mic, “One, two, one-two-three-four!”

Sherlock draws his bow across the violin strings and launches into the song. The rest of John’s band joins in seamlessly (bastards must have rehearsed this without him.)

Unlike in Sherlock’s hotel room, here John has all the words on a teleprompter, and he adds some…unorthodox choreography to the mix. He clutches the mic, rolls his hips, and strokes his hands along the mic stand, all to shrieking applause.

Sherlock quickly gets caught up in an electric current of euphoria, the thrill of the song with a full arrangement pounding through the speakers all around him. Just as soon, he’s bobbing his fully wigged head alongside John’s, dancing hip to hip with him and joining in on vocals as much as the violin will allow. Every time they catch one another’s eyes, they share wide smiles, and bob their heads just a bit harder.

When the song is over, John takes Sherlock’s left hand in his right, raising them to the air in celebration amidst the cheers. “Sherlock Holmes, everybody!”

* * *

Video of the performance immediately goes viral.

Molly, increasingly used to Sherlock’s brush with celebrity, just asks if they kept the wigs.

Sherlock’s dad calls to brag about the new attention he’s getting from his colleagues at the local paper. He listens dutifully as his dad (a man who humored Sherlock's own celebrity crush for years) and indulges him when he reads out Robert Plant’s tweet about the performance for the fifth time.

The popularity of the Watvor and Adlockson ships decrease rapidly.

#Johnlock trends briefly on Twitter for the first time (but not the last).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who contributed song titles! In this chapter I used suggestions from Square_Orange, shlivesmeansjwlives_Bombal, WillowGrove, DaringD, and alexxphoenix42. Thanks so much!
> 
> References from this chapter:  
> 1\. [The electric violin cover that inspired this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HmUpWvKTIAo)  
> 2\. Wondering what those wigs look like? 
> 
> Hang out with me on tumblr @romantic-sherlock for positivity and fluffy posts.


	5. Conversations Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly gives Sherlock some preposterous advice, and a visitor comes to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me between updates!

Sherlock does what he always does when the emotions get so large and cumbersome that he’s ready to start pulling out his hair. He calls Molly.

After three rings, there’s a click: “Molly’s phone, Siger Holmes speaking!”

Sherlock straightens against his headboard. “oh…Dad?” he asks, bemused. “…Why are you answering Molly’s phone?”

“Sherlock!” his dad cries cheerfully. “Your mum and I are at the Hooper’s for dinner. Molly left her phone on the sofa when mum dragged her into the kitchen for an interrogation.”

Sherlock smiles, small but genuine. “I know I haven’t called you or mum in a while...”

His dad chuckles. “I understand, son. I’ll fetch Molly for you. Promise to call your mother later this week and I won’t let it slip that it’s you on the line. She _worries_. And don’t fret, I’ll save you all the best news in the village for next time.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Looking forward to it.” His dad is a good journalist when he wants to be, and a terrible gossip the rest of the time.

After a long silence and some shuffling, another voice comes through.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

Some of the tightness eases in Sherlock’s chest as he hears the warm, familiar cadence of Molly’s voice. He listens to her padding through the house (looking for a private space to speak uninterrupted by nosy mothers).

“Hmmm. What makes you think something’s wrong?”

He can very nearly hear the eye-roll. “You never call when you can text. And even then, hardly ever. Your mum has been hounding me all night because of that very fact, ta very much.”

“Why are you home this weekend?” he stalls.

“Just missed Toby. It’s only for the one night.”

For a moment, Sherlock wishes he was there with her. He so rarely gets homesick: their village is quiet, conservative, and dull. But it’s also familiar. Safe.

Molly’s voice is quiet in his ear. “What is it, Sherlock.”

There’s something solid stuck in his throat. “I’m so confused, Molls.”

There’s a sigh, the long breath blasting interference across the line. “It’s only been a couple weeks since we last spoke. Made it sound like you were getting along so well.”

“That was before I got roped into doing the Led Zeppelin wig-thing, and woke up two days later with a million Twitter followers.”

“What, on the account where you talk about ash?”

Just this once, Sherlock lets the amusement in her tone slide. “ _Yes_ , that one. They were all messaging me about ‘John-lock,’ me and John. And Irene started sending me these, well, _fanworks_.”

Molly snorts. “Oh I know all about those. Have you seen the ones with the red pants?”

“Molly!” Sherlock cries, scandalized. “I most certainly have _not_. It was nothing explicit. There was one…a drawing of the two of us. In the silly wigs. We were…holding hands.”

“Oh, no.” Molly isn’t Sherlock’s best friend for nothing. He can hear the cause of Sherlock’s emotional disorder dawn on her, and hurries to keep talking before she can do anything embarrassing, like deduce Sherlock’s feelings _out loud_.

“It’s not just that. John has started to look at me a bit…differently, as well. Like he…wants me? Um. In his bed?”

To his indignation, Molly’s laughter filters through his phone. “Sherlock, I have news for you. John’s been looking at you like that since your first concert. I’ve seen video footage.”

Sherlock groans. “But that’s during performances, with ten thousand people who paid for a show. I’m talking about during _rehearsals_. When there’s nobody around but Lestrade. No cameras. He looks at me, does his intense John Watson stare and licks his lips and I have to concentrate on not tripping, which would be extra embarrassing since I’m being paid to be a professional dancer.”

“I’m not seeing the problem here.” Molly says.

“The _problem_ is that John Watson wants to have sex with me!”

“Okay, now I’m _really_ not seeing the problem! Because you definitely feel the same way.”

“I’m not going to be some— _bed-warmer_ for John Watson just because he’s a randy celebrity and I’m convenient.” Sherlock is breathing hard, one hand tugging at his curly hair.

“But you told me he wasn’t like that. Wasn’t the playboy like the papers say he is.”

“Exactly, he’s not! That’s just what I was going to say.”

“Were you?” Molly sounds really baffled now.

“He wants to fuck me. Fine. That’s simple enough, plenty of people do.” Sherlock ignores Molly’s snort. “We’ll be dancing, and he’ll look at me like I’m his next meal, and then the song turns off, he gives me a pat on the back and leaves. Doesn’t say anything, do anything. Treats me exactly the way he usually does.”

Tentatively, Molly asks, “What’s ‘usual,’ for John, then?”

“It’s even _worse_ ,” Sherlock confides, flopping sideways onto his pillow. “It’s not like he hasn’t got other chances to seduce me, if that’s what he’s after. But instead he sits next to me on the tour bus when we travel. As if he might actually enjoy my company. Sometimes we order a movie and room service after a concert, and he tells the most awful jokes even though he knows I’ll tease him for it, because he deserves it, they’re _horrendous_. And he compliments my violin playing when he obviously doesn’t know a thing about classical music! It’s driving me up the wall!”

“So what you’re saying…” Molly begins.

“Yes.”

“Is that John Watson wants to have sex with you.”

“Yes.”

“ _And_ he wants to watch stupid movies with you until you fall asleep?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a long silence while Molly gives this information the consideration it’s due. “That…”

“Yes?”

Molly giggles. “That sounds like an ideal situation, if you ask me.”

Sherlock sits up.

“Have you even considered just _talking_ to John about all this?”

He gasps indignantly, and reels his head back so quickly he knocks it against the headboard. “That’s your advice? _Just talk to him?_ ”

“Yes?”

“But _he’s_ the famous popstar! Shouldn’t he be making the first move?”

“Well, you’re the tall, aloof dancer. With a genius intellect and a great pair of legs. And I _know_ you. When you’re afraid to get hurt, you shut down. And you’re too convincing an actor for your own good. Maybe John wants some kind of signal from _you_.”

 Sherlock considers this.

“Talk to him?” he asks, dubious.

“Definitely.”

 

\- - -

 

Sherlock smooths his curls into place yet again as he walks slowly to John’s dressing room a few hours later. (He can do this).

Deep breaths.

In, and out.

Too soon, Sherlock is in front of the door. (“Star Dressing Room: JOHN WATSON” neatly chalked out). He’s willing himself to knock when he hears something. A series of chords on an acoustic guitar, John’s voice singing over them. Just a few words, followed by a long pause. Then the chords begin again, then the voice.

Sherlock knows that rhythm.

John is _composing_.

Curious (and helpless as ever to quell his curiosity), Sherlock eases the door open. In September, he wouldn’t have dared, but since then Sherlock’s own room has been breached by snooping ears, and he feels entitled to a little retribution. Besides, John is not just his friend but his favorite (contemporary) artist. Sherlock feels he ought to take every opportunity for an inside peek into his artistic process.

Sherlock loses the pretension of stealth when the door creaks and John’s head snaps up, hands frozen on his guitar.

“Is that a new song?” Sherlock quickly uses John’s surprise to his advantage and snatches the open notebook lying in front of John’s seat. “ _The Madman_ ,” Sherlock tests the weight of the unfamiliar title on his tongue as he skims the lyrics thoughtfully.

Typical song structure, John’s prose warm and familiar raised under Sherlock’s fingertips. The page is messy and scribbled over, but the story shines through. It starts with ‘Once upon a time,’ and folds out like a fairytale from there.

The protagonist is the eponymous Madman: a charming prince. A mad prince who travels on his own whim to perform magic and music for the masses. A corner of Sherlock’s mouth tilts up with fondness, that John must imagine himself in this fantastical way. Performing for his adoring public.

A peasant joins the prince somewhere along the way, and decides to follow on his adventures. Sherlock wonders whether that might be meant to be him? It makes his smile widen. The pauper to John’s prince. The lyrics are playful, a touch melancholic, and gorgeously visual. A proper fairytale.

Sherlock looks up at John to find him wide-eyed and anticipatory.

He passes the lyrics back to John. “Can I hear the music?”

John blinks as he accepts the notebook and raises his guitar again. “I…sure.”

When he’s finished, Sherlock is tapping his chin thoughtfully and John is nervously tugging at his ear.

“It’s pretty rough at this stage. I know something’s missing, but I can’t figure out exactly what. The music never comes as easily to me as the words.”

That’s fitting, Sherlock thinks, as he abruptly exits the room, since he has the exact opposite problem. “Right!” he turns a corner and retrieves his violin from the cubicle he’s sharing with Irene before he changes his mind or loses his nerve.

John startles again when Sherlock returns, glancing down at Sherlock’s case with a frown. “Do you take that violin everywhere?”

Sherlock hums as he lays out the case and prepares his bow. “I’ve discovered that Flight of the Bumblebee does a decent job of relieving pre-performance jitters.” Not as well as John or Molly would. But they’re not always at his side to get him out of his head and back on his feet.

“Right,” Sherlock repeats, imperiously. “Let’s hear the chords again.”

John shakes his head, but he’s smiling. As John picks out the melody, this time Sherlock joins in on the violin when the Madman is first introduced. He improvises a series of soft, short notes that dance sweetly across the strings just as the Prince dashes from one mad adventure to the next. It complements the fanciful spirit that shone so brightly in John’s lyrics. As they continue to play together, John’s grin grows wider and his voice becomes more confident, more expressive.

The exact moment when John gets utterly lost in the music is obvious. It always is. He lets go of the British decorum and his self-conscious mannerisms, and lets himself feel his way through the thrum of the guitar and the vibrations between them. The song ends as softly as it begins, like the flutter of pages in a storybook.

John snaps back to reality. “That was brilliant, Sherlock! How did you know just what it needed?” John doesn’t wait for an answer as he begins scribbling frantically on a fresh sheet of notebook paper.

“Anytime,” Sherlock says (and means it).

He is rewarded with another brilliant grin, and Sherlock lets hope swell in his chest, that maybe Molly was right. The smile slips slowly from John’s face as his expressive brows draw together.

“Sherlock. Are you…” John stands, and paces a few steps closer to Sherlock, guitar still in hand. “Do you. _Would_ you…” he looks as stuck as he sounds, and twice as frustrated. The hopeful ball in Sherlock’s stomach glows that much brighter as John takes a shuddering breath and looks at the ceiling. Is John finally going to-?

There’s a knock at the door.

“Fuck!” John mutters vehemently, dragging a hand through his blond hair as he moves to the door. (Sherlock agrees, slumping defeatedly back into his seat).

Mrs. Hudson steps in. “There you are dear. And Sherlock! So glad the two of you are getting along so well. Heard some lovely music a few moments ago, didn’t want to interrupt.”

Neither John nor Sherlock has a fitting response to that.

John has a manufactured smile on his face as he asks, “What did you need me for?”

Mrs. Hudson glances to Sherlock, fidgeting a bit. “It’s about the shows in Las Vegas this weekend.”

“Yeah?” John asks, cautious.

She tugs down each sleeve of her jacket. “Execs from the label called. Victor will be joining us in Las Vegas this weekend.”

 “Victor…?” Sherlock asks, curiosity piqued.

“Trevor.” John replies grimly, still looking at Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock perks up at the name. Victor Trevor may be an infamous prick, but his music videos always have stunning choreography.

John sounds less enthused. “Mrs. H, I really don’t think that’s a great idea.”

Mrs. Hudson sighs as she brushes off some lint from John’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I’m afraid this decision was made well above my head, John. He’ll perform a few songs solo, join in on two or three of yours, and that’s it. You’ll have separate dressing rooms, of course. It’ll only be the two shows.” John doesn’t respond, and Mrs. Hudson sighs. “Publicity has already gone out, dear.”

“S’pose I haven’t a choice then.” John is standing ramrod straight, like a soldier ready for battle.

With one last sympathetic look and a pat to John’s shoulder, Mrs. Hudson leaves, already tapping away at her mobile.

Sherlock stands, approaches John cautiously. “Is everything-“

John jerks. “Oh, Sherlock. Right…do you mind giving me some space? Need to get my head wrapped around…”

Before he knows it, Sherlock is on the wrong end of John’s dressing room door, more confused than ever, and vowing to ignore the deflated bubble of hope in his lungs.

\- - -

 

John can do this.

 _Her face when she told him_.

John can do this.

_The front page of all the gossip sites._

John can _do_ this.

_Is that even your real name?_

“Fuck!” John tugs at the short bristles on the back of his head. Feels Irene lay a soft hand on his upper back.

“John. You don’t have to-”

“I _do_. The execs say Victor is good for publicity-”

Irene scoffs. “That’ll make him good for one thing.”

John feels so, so, tired all at once. He wasn’t prepared to deal with all the memories that Victor’s impending appearance has dredged up. “Irene, I’ve been over this with you.”

She crosses her arms and huffs. “Yes, fine. It’s not his fault he trusted the vicious harpy, and you’re too fucking noble to hate him. The thing is, though, _I_ have plenty of pettiness to spread around. And I’d very much prefer to go on hating him on your behalf, if you don’t mind.”

A real smile pulls on John’s mouth for the first time since he heard from Mrs. H that Victor was joining Vegas. “You’re too good for me, Irene.”

Irene sighs, put-upon. “Don’t I know it. You going to be okay to rehearse?” John nods, so she offers an elbow, and John links his own through it, following as she pushes through the stage door.

The rest of the dancers are already there, dressed in their work-out clothes: some cross-legged on the floor, others standing around casually in loose groups. No sign of Lestrade, yet. John automatically gravitates to Sherlock, who is slouched against a wall and snugly wrapped in an enormous grey hoodie, and drags Irene along with him.

Sherlock pulls out an earbud as he notices the pair approach, and John smiles at the gesture. Sherlock is non-verbal most mornings, and often ignores all of humanity until absolutely necessary. “You ready for this?” John asks (aware that he’d just been asked this question himself).

Sherlock’s eyes are suddenly piercing. “That depends. Are you going to tell me the history between you and Victor Trevor?” The directness surprises John.

“Their history is that Victor is an enormous prat, and always has been,” Irene interjects firmly.

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart.” Victor Trevor’s tall, broad figure emerges from the shadowed backstage just past Sherlock’s shoulder. John stiffens as he slings an arm around Irene’s waist. “Then again, Irene’s bark has always been worse than her bite.”

“Has it?” Irene smiles sweetly up at Victor before gripping her right fist in her left and delivering a swift elbow to his gut, sending him careening backwards.

Sherlock barks a surprised laugh at this, which in turn makes John smile.

Hunched over and puffing out breaths, Victor looks up at John. “Watson,” he manages hoarsely.

John looks back unsympathetically. “Victor.”

The man carefully stretches back up to full height, exaggeratedly massaging the spot where Irene had landed her blow. “Note to self: don’t underestimate Irene Adler.”

“It’s a beginner’s mistake,” Sherlock rumbles, eyeing Victor curiously.

Victor returns the inquisitive gaze, except the way he does it, it’s less like he’s trying to parse Sherlock’s secrets and more like he’s trying to imagine him without any clothing. John grits his teeth.

“Well, hello there. I know _you_. You’re the smoking hot babe from Johnny’s last video.” Victor takes Sherlock’s hand and bends over it to give it a kiss. “Remind me of your name, angel?”

Sherlock looks at John and Irene, brows drawn together, but doesn’t withdraw his hand. “Is he flirting with me?” He looks down to Victor. “Are you flirting with me?”

Irene snorts. John scowls. Victor winks. “What man could resist, faced with a stunning beauty like you?”

“But you’re Victor Trevor, L.A.’s most notorious womanizer,” Sherlock says, and John is reluctantly charmed by the reminder that Sherlock follows celebrity gossip as faithfully as the latest chemistry periodicals. Sherlock continues, “You literally have a song called _I’m not Gay_.”

“Baby, I’d make an exception for you.”

John loses it. “For fuck’s sake, Victor’s bi.” (John ignores Irene’s muttered: _and a slag.)_ “ _I’m not Gay_ was his idea of a funny joke. His sexuality is the industry’s worst kept secret.”

Victor releases Sherlock’s hand and turns on John with an exaggerated expression of hurt. “It’s not a _secret_ at all. I take out men just as often as women, but it never gets reported. _Apparently_ , it takes some kind of grand, dramatic performance posted on YouTube to make the media acknowledge that bisexuality fucking exists.”

John smirks. “Don’t like being upstaged, Victor?”

Victor sighs. “You really had the right idea, Johnny. Now you get to dance with this _ravishing_ man every night.”

John glances at Sherlock and is pleased to see that, although he looks a bit more flushed than typical, he only rolls his eyes at the flattery.

Just then, Lestrade slams open the stage door with a packet of notes under one arm. “Everybody better be here and ready to rehearse, because we’ve plenty to cover. Places, for top of _Smoked_. Victor, nice to have you with us again. You can take a seat in the audience until we start on _Mayfly Man._ I have some edits to make to the choreography your agent sent over.”

Victor slinks away with another wink to Sherlock, and John consciously has to relax his jaw. If he grips Sherlock a bit fiercer during their dances, looks at him a bit longer, Sherlock doesn’t mention it.

 

\- - -

 

That night’s concert goes as smoothly as it could. Victor decides on a whim to crowd-surf during _A Girl Named Gloria Scott,_ which makes the audience go wild and John cross his arms and Irene tut at the dramatics.

It’s not until the next day that shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been an introduction to: Victor Trevor as trash!john squared :>
> 
> Credit to alexxphoenix42 and Samui_san for song titles this chapter!


	6. It Happens in Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gambling, jealousy, dancing, and Victor Trevor's next hit single.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the rating change! It's pretty tame compared to some other things on this site, but I'm damn proud of it for a first attempt at a sex scene.

**_ Sherlock _ ** _ : This just in. Victor Trevor is bisexual and a shameless flirt. Tell your cat. _

**_ Molly _ ** _ : !!!  _

**_ Molly: _ ** _ I feel like I should be less surprised? Or maybe more surprised? _

**_ Molly: _ ** _ and do u seriously have two legitimate rockstars wanting into your pants rn?? _

**_ Sherlock _ ** _ : Must be something in the water _

**_ Molly _ ** _ : yes, the organically flavored vitamin kind. _

Sherlock is smiling down at his phone, one hand curled around a cup of tea at the private hotel restaurant, when Victor drops into the chair beside him. 

“And who has you in smiling this morning, Sherlock? A distant boyfriend, perhaps?” Sherlock scowls at the interruption and Victor grins right back. 

“No.” 

“It’s Molly,” says John, who appears on Sherlock’s other side from nowhere, a plate heaped with eggs and a glass of orange juice in hand. “It’s always Molly.”

John isn’t looking at Sherlock. Hasn’t even acknowledged him yet, scowling unwaveringly as he is across the table at Victor. Sherlock’s brows draw together. 

“Well, if the two of you are going to keep this rivalry thing up, I think I’ll just go.” Sherlock moves to stand, but Victor’s hand on his arm stops him. 

“Hang on, where are you off to in such a rush? We don’t have rehearsal today, do we?” 

Sherlock pauses, long enough that Victor sees an opening and keeps speaking. “We have a free day in Vegas. I thought a few of us could go hit the strip. If you don’t have anything better to do.” 

“No.” John is still glaring at Victor. 

_ Possessive? Protective? _ Sherlock isn’t completely sure. What he does know is that his confusion at John’s posturing is quickly turning into annoyance.

Sherlock turns to Victor, and seriously considers his offer instead of brushing it off. A chance to see some of the sights, maybe learn a bit more about Victor’s past with John? “Could be interesting.”

Victor flashes his perfect white teeth. “Excellent. John, will you be joining us?” 

John’s jaw locks. “Cant. Have that phone conference for Conan later this week.” 

Victor snaps his fingers. “Oh, that’s right. I guess Sherlock and I will have to make do just the two of us.” Victor grabs a strawberry from John’s plate. “Shucks,” he says, biting into it as he stands to leave. “Sherlock, meet me in the lobby in an hour?” he doesn’t wait for a reply before sauntering out. 

“You’re not seriously going out with that prick.” 

Sherlock turns to find John furious and incredulous. And actually looking at him for the first time this morning. (His annoyance surges stronger.) “You make it sound like a date. And even if it _were_ , I don’t see why I shouldn’t. It’s none of your business, and I want to see a bit of Vegas. We hardly ever get a chance to look around the places we tour through.”

“None of my business?” John asks, disbelieving. 

“I’m pretty sure, yeah.” Sherlock locks eyes with John, daring him to refute it. When he doesn’t take the challenge, Sherlock pushes out his chair, fed up with this conversation and ready to leave.

John lays a hand on his forearm to stop him leaving, just as Victor had minutes ago. “Hang on a sec. I know I’ve been giving him a hard time, it’s just… Victor’s…well, he’s not a bad bloke, not exactly. He’s not some _villain_. But he’s bad news. He just wants to use you. I’ve seen Victor do this a hundred times. He picks some bird, or bloke, takes them to bed and that’s it. He won’t know your name in a week.” 

Sherlock flinches, hurt stinging through him. He knows these cutting words are motivated by John’s jealousy, so Sherlock retaliates in kind.

“Maybe I’m not looking for anything more than that.”  John starts backwards, looking hurt, and Sherlock feels a sickening satisfaction in his gut. “I can take care of myself, John. Don’t need you to protect me.” Sherlock walks out of the restaurant before the pained look on John’s face can make him change his mind.

\- - -

John is sat cross-legged in the middle of the stage with his guitar and a mess of papers spread all around when Greg finds him. 

He sees Greg approach, but for once doesn’t have the energy to hide all the damning evidence surrounding him. “Been looking for you. Mrs. Hudson says you skipped out on the conference call with Conan’s people.” 

John doesn’t respond, just lays his guitar flat in his lap and plucks at the strings.

Greg toes one of the papers so that it faces him and crouches to read it. “ _I’m Not Jealous_.” The three words are scrawled thickly, violently at the top of the page. “Not to call you a liar, but the looks on your face whenever Sherlock and Victor are in the same room would beg to differ.”

“I’m _not_ jealous,” John bites out. (He is. Enormously, nauseatingly jealous.)

With a huge sigh, Greg lowers himself to sit next to John, knees cupped in his elbows. The two of them look out onto the stadium, where a few technicians are fiddling with lighting and sound instruments, and a teenager is sweeping up discarded concessions. 

John lets the fight leak out of him. It’s barely a whisper. “I missed my shot, Greg.”

“You haven’t even taken one yet.” 

John lets his head fall down into his hands with a groan. 

“I worked with other celebrities before you, John., with other dancers, On movie sets. Ones who thought they were God’s gift to mankind, that they could have anything and anyone they wanted. You were never like that. Not when you were fifteen, and not now…But you’re selling yourself short here, kid. You’ve got a real connection with Sherlock, it’s plain as day. I don’t want to see this fall out the same way it did with James.”

John snaps his head to face Greg, surprised. “You knew about me and James?”

Greg has a wry grin on his face, and he shrugs. “Probably one of the few that did. Something about the way you two moved when you were in the same room. Same way you and Sherlock _fit_ when you’re dancing. I don’t want to see you miss out on that kind of connection again. Especially not now you’re out. For someone whose songs are so emotional, you sure are terrible at talking about your feelings when it counts, mate.”

A wry smile sneaks onto John’s face. “He saw one of my songs, accidentally. Something silly I wrote about him…well, about us…And it was like for a moment he _got it_ , you know? We were _so_ close. So close to getting there… I thought so, anyways. And then Victor came and everything got all muddled up.” 

Greg reaches an arm around John’s shoulder and tugs him in for a sideways hug. 

“You’ll figure something out, kid.”

John hopes so.

\- - -

Lights flashing, machines rattling, no windows in sight: casinos in Vegas are everything Hollywood made them out to be. Sherlock watches in fascinated disgust as Victor loses 50,000 dollars in one go at Roulette. When it looks like he’s about to go again, Sherlock drags him to the Craps table. 

Sherlock takes the 100 dollars he’s (modestly, in comparison to Victor) taken out from the ATM at the entrance and methodically works the table with his knowledge of statistics until he’s made a thousand dollars. When the resentful muttering starts and Sherlock’s satisfied grin is too big to smother, he allows Victor to march the pair of them to the bar nearby. 

“Figured you’d go for Blackjack. Counting cards and shit. Irene said you were some kind of genius.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Blackjack is too much work. And too cliché. Craps has pretty even odds from the House as Blackjack, and it’s much more exciting.” When a bartender arrives, Sherlock orders a ginger ale and smirks sideways at Victor. “You must be out of money by now after that abominable loss. Need me to buy you a drink?”

The bartender interrupts by setting Sherlock’s drink on the bar in front of him. The man leans over, resting on folded elbows and blinking long blond eyelashes at Sherlock

“Sure I can’t get you anything stronger, darling?” Sherlock’s brows knit together and he’s about to respond, when Victor interrupts. 

“Hey! Don’t you know who I am?” Victor looks indignant. 

The bartender’s eyes flick lazily over Victor. “Oh. You’re that…singer fella. Trevor something?” 

“Exactly!”

“What, you wanna give me _your_ number, then?” the man asks, looking indifferent.

“No,” says Victor. 

“Well then.” The bartender walks away to serve another customer.

“He is _not_ getting a tip,” Victor grumbles, looking sidelong at Sherlock. “Although, don’t suppose I can blame him for having good taste.” 

“You must realize by now that this seduction nonsense you’re trying isn’t going to work on me.”

Victor pouts, dropping the saccharine act. “Better’n whatever nonsense Watson’s trying.” 

“What’s the history with you two, anyways? John’s been acting like a dickhead since you got here.” 

“That’d be the jealousy.” Victor winks at Sherlock for the umpteenth time, and Sherlock responds with an eye-roll.

“Could you try to be a genuine human being for one single moment?” 

Victor looks around the seating areas nearby and takes Sherlock’s elbow. “Fine, but not here.” 

He stiffens when Victor leads him to a secluded booth in a low-lit area, and glances around uncertainly. 

Victor rolls his eyes. “Don’t get your British panties in a twist. I won’t try anything you don’t want. I happen to be a strong advocate of enthusiastic consent. Usually in the form of, ‘’’’Victor please!” and “Victor, yes!” he puts on a high, moaning voice in jest and Sherlock relaxes, enough to take a seat beside Victor in the more private seating area. 

“Well?” 

Victor takes a sip of his drink and looks seriously over the glass at Sherlock. 

“Go on. What’d you do, to get him so riled up just by showing up?” 

“…Fucked his ex.”

Sherlock starts. “Mary?” 

Victor nods, fingering the ring of his glass and not looking up. 

“If you believe the gossip sites, it was a mutual break-up between John and Mary. No mentions of cheating on either side.”

“That’s the thing about gossip sites,” Victor says, slowly. “You don’t always know the faces on the other end.”

The pieces click together. “Mary Morstan was…a _reporter_.”

“Bingo.” Victor moves around the booth so that he and Sherlock are seated beside each other. “Ever Heard of A.G.R.A.?” 

“Of course. It’s the most vicious site there is. And startlingly accurate if the number of threats and lawsuits it gets are anything to go by.” 

“Well. If you believe her, Mary Morstan’s real initials are A.G.R.A. Might be the only true thing I ever knew about her.” Victor snorts and Sherlock has another realization. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “You didn’t just sleep with her. You fell for her.” 

Victor puffs out a breath as he says darkly, “Irene was right. You’re too smart for your own good. Yeah, well. Couldn’t help myself, could I? Mary – whatever her name was. She was something else. Witty and quick and beautiful. I wasn’t in the same room with her twenty minutes before I’d fallen hard.” He snorts. “Wasn’t an hour after that she was in my bed. Saw her whenever we could get a minute together. Thought it was the real deal, she always said she was gonna break up with Watson… I didn’t make the connection straight away, when things I’d told her late at night started showing up online. Didn’t wanna believe it. Couldn’t see straight when she was in the room. When things I’d never told anyone else showed up on the front pages of magazines…I figured it out.” Sherlock sees his fists clench on the table between them, and lays a cautious hand over his.

“That doesn’t explain why you antagonize John. Sounds like you two were both taken in by someone not very nice. Maybe you’re more similar than you think.”

Victor shrugs, and a hint of his arrogant persona comes back as he smirks at Sherlock. “Maybe I’m just jealous. Watson gets _all_ the pretty ones.” 

Sherlock takes his hand away and folds his arms. “What are you talking about.” 

Victor’s rare authenticity has all but dissolved as he teases Sherlock. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re head over heels for him, my dude.” 

Sherlock knows he’s turning red, but turns his head away so that Victor doesn’t get the full impact. “Am not.” 

Victor rests his hand on Sherlock’s face and gently turns it back to face him. Victor’s eyes are wide and golden brown, and very close to Sherlock’s. The dusting of freckles across his mocha-colored cheeks stands out clearly from so close. He smells nice. Strawberry shampoo.

“Tell me to stop,” Victor says, and moves his lips towards Sherlock’s, stopping just a hair away. 

Sherlock doesn’t tell him to stop, and he feels the soft curl of a smile on Victor’s face before he presses in. 

The kiss is…nice. It’s soft, and close. An excellent kiss, from a technical stand point. And it should be _simple_. Sherlock knows exactly what Victor wants from him. He’s made it perfectly clear. Sherlock could keep kissing Victor, could drag him upstairs to some hotel room. It would be easy. 

Victor pulls away. The shit-eating smirk is back on his face. “Exactly.”

Sherlock scowls because his lips are still buzzing and he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t like feeling wrong footed. “Exactly, what?” 

Victor tilts his head. “You kiss me like you’re thinking hard about something else.” 

“So? Maybe you’re just not very good.”

“ _Please_. I’m Victor Trevor. The only reason you’d be distracted is if you were already taken.” 

Sherlock crosses his arms again, annoyed to be caught out. 

“Watson, huh?” 

“Obviously.” 

“What’s stopping you?” Victor asks. 

“What’s stopping _him_?” Sherlock retorts. “He’s made his desire for sex perfectly clear, and I’m fairly sure I’ve returned the favor.” 

“Nah, this isn’t just about sex.”

Sherlock half turns to Victor, not wanting to give away too much. “What makes you say that?”

“Like I said, I’m Victor Trevor.” He winks. “I know all about sex.” Sherlock scoffs, but Victor continues. “I know because…he looks at you special. Like a cliché. ‘Like the sun rises and falls on your shoulders.’” 

Sherlock is searching for an appropriate response to that when Victor groans in disgust, slumping back in the booth dramatically. “Look at me. Playing _cupid_. Watson gets the Grammy, Watson gets the guy. Fucking typical.” 

Sherlock smiles at these now familiar antics. “You know what, Victor? You’re not all bad after all.”

“Oh yeah?” Victor asks, and dips forward as if to kiss Sherlock again. “In that case, I know a way we could drive Watson _wild_ with jealousy…”

Sherlock pushes him away with a laugh. “Not a chance.” 

\- - -

The second Vegas concert progresses just as smoothly as the first. The crowd’s excitement at Victor’s presence revitalizes dance numbers that should feel old and tired after months of performing them.  It’s when Victor performs solo that things get shaken up. 

Because Victor thrives on chaos. 

So, when he finishes his set, it’s not entirely surprising to hear Victor introduce an extra song that wasn’t rehearsed. From his perch behind the band, Sherlock wonders what they’re in for tonight. Another round of crowd-surfing? Nudity? A declaration of intent to run for president?

“Thank you Las Vegas! I’ve had a kick-ass time in this city, even if the strip took me for a hundred grand!” Victor shouts to cheers and laughs. 

“Since I’ve had such a wonderful time, I thought I’d give y’all a treat. I’m sure all of you have heard my hit, _I’m Not Gay,_ right? Well, I figured a Watson concert celebrating _Out and Loud_ might be the best time to debut my _next_ hit song. Hope you don’t mind, Watson, but I’ve already slipped your band the music.” 

The anticipation in the crowd is thick in the air, as excited murmurings begin to mount. Sherlock thinks he knows where this is heading as incredulity and anticipation wage war inside him.

John must understand what Victor’s about to do as well, because he lays a hand on his shoulder to say something that their mics don’t pick up. Victor shakes him off with a careless grin, and John throws his arms up and stalks back toward the band, where he grabs a bottle of water and sits to watch the show along with everyone else.

Victor puts both hands on his mic and dips his chin down solemnly. “This is a number I like to call…” he grins wickedly at the mounting tension in the air. “ _I’m…Not…Straight!”_

The shrieks are deafening. and Sherlock actually has to put his hands over his ears as Victor counts to the band, “One, two, one-two-three-four!” 

John’s coming out song had been about social change and self-realization. Victor’s is much more…explicit. Like a lot of Victor’s songs, it’s mostly about sex. 

_ Labels don’t matter when I’m in the mood _

_ Of course I’m bi you ever seen a straight man dance this good?  _

It’s not the most politically correct, but the beat is damn catchy, and Sherlock and the rest of the dancers are beginning to move along with the music.

Victor is in his element, front and center stage, light on his feet and joints moving fluidly through every beat. He’s just reached a second chorus, when he yells, back to John, “What do you say, Watson? One bi guy to another, think you can dance better than me?”

There are cheers and boos from the crowd as John, shaking his head, takes the challenge and slides center stage to applause. His moves are familiar to Sherlock, ones he’s seen a hundred times before. He starts with a twist, slide, _pop:_  John has an instinct for the beats of the song and moves accordingly, ends by tipping an imaginary hat to Victor. 

 “Not bad, son! But I had something else in mind. I'm gonna need a volunteer…” Victor stalks upstage and calls into the mic, “Sherlock! I’m gonna need your help for a minute!” 

_ Oh, no.  _ Sherlock does _not_ want to get dragged into this. But before he knows it, the hands of the other dancers are at his back, and he’s being shoved downstage to stand beside Victor and John. 

Victor takes him by the elbow, and Sherlock pastes his sweetest stage smile onto his face as he asks roughly, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trust me babe, it’ll drive him nuts.” Sherlock sighs, but goes along with him as he drags Sherlock into position. Victor may not be a total prat, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t _evil_. 

Victor continues singing as he leads Sherlock into, of all things, a tango. Sherlock has enough classical training to follow, curious where Victor is headed with this. Victor presses them chest to chest and walks him across the stage, right in front of John. Sherlock has one hand pressed high on Victor’s back, his other outstretched and entwined with Victor’s. The quick steps, the two of them wrapped together and kicking out in improvised _adornos_ between beats, all fit surprisingly well with the contemporary music. It’s clever and unexpected and _sexy_. 

After a figure eight turn, Victor twists Sherlock into his arms so he’s tucked against the man’s chest, then spins him out. Sherlock expects to be pulled back again, but Victor lets go and Sherlock goes spinning straight into John’s arms, who takes up the thread of the dance seamlessly. 

_ Of  _ course, _John would have classical dance training_ , is what Sherlock thinks in a daze, barely hearing the cheers around them. 

He’s face to face with John, who has Sherlock wrapped securely in his arms, not breaking eye contact as he takes his turn at stalking Sherlock across the stage, leading them with a confidence that Sherlock, quite frankly, finds arousing. As the music pounds around them, John tips Sherlock into a dip. Sherlock wraps one long leg around John’s as he tips backwards, bent so far he thinks his hands might brush the ground if they weren’t solidly gripped around John. 

As he gets pulled back up, Sherlock gets stuck looking at John, heart pounding, chest rising and falling heavily, John’s bright blue eyes intense, looking right back at him.

Sherlock is preparing to move away (or move forward, he isn’t sure) when he feels another set of hands around his waist, pulling him from John and into another chest along his back. 

The noise of the stadium floods back to Sherlock with his next breath, the pounding of Victor’s song, the shrieking of the fans as Victor guides Sherlock into a provocative swaying dance, singing in his ear. 

_ Who says I’ve gotta choose _

_ I like my men tight and my women loose _

Sherlock picks up the thread of the dance and closes his eyes as he reaches one arm up and behind him to wrap along the side of Victor’s head. The dance devolves from a semblance of tango into a much more basic rhythmic undulating. 

His eyes startle open again when he feels John join them, and Sherlock then is captured between two muscled dancers, pressed together as tightly as they would be at a crowded club. Sherlock begins to falter with his rhythm. He feels suffocated, and hot, and he doesn’t know exactly what’s happening but this is _wrong_. 

He looks down to John at his front only to see him glaring over Sherlock’s shoulder at Victor, and that is just _it_. 

Sherlock twists in their grips so that he’s facing forward, plants a hand on each of their chests and pushes firmly to separate them, satisfied when they both stumble slightly. He spins 180 degrees and strides offstage to cheers as the song winds down to an end.

He barely registers the screaming applause, his blood is now boiling with anger rather than the adrenaline of a performance. 

Luckily they’re staying only a couple of blocks from the venue, because Sherlock needs to get out of here _this moment_. Sherlock doesn’t want to think of what a mess he makes out in public: sweaty and covered in running makeup and dressed in his sequined costume, but it’s a short walk before he’s back in his room.

He’s still furiously scrubbing off his stage makeup when he hears the knocking on his door. 

“What!” Sherlock screams, knowing it’s John on the other side, and not very much in the mood for a chat right now. He throws open the door, wanting to get this over with.

“I came to say sorry, I know that crossed a line, I just-” John is wringing his hands, looking worried and vulnerable (which Sherlock does not have patience for right now) as he pushes into Sherlock’s room. Sherlock slams the door behind him.

“You can’t DO this, John! I’m not a thing, and I’m _definitely_ not a trophy for you and Victor to fight over!” 

“I know.” 

Sherlock’s anger is transforming into a wild desperation. “You don’t get to decide like that, you don’t get to, _be_ this possessive, jealous prick! I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not your _anything_ , which means you don’t get to- you can’t-” 

Sherlock is running out of words, which doesn’t happen to him, and he’s confused and frantic, and it’s a relief when John steps into his space, presses him up against a wall, his hands firm on Sherlock’s wrists.

“I know,” John says, breathing into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock melts. This, the physical way they fit together, is easy. They’ve been dancing together, moving in sync, for months. John just needs to take it _one_ _step further_ , and Sherlock knows that they could be…

“John…” Sherlock whines, slumping lower as a cold nose runs up his neck, lips nip under his jaw and along his cheek until they’re just a breath away from Sherlock’s. 

“Can I…?” John asks, looking up into Sherlock’s eyes, searching and wanting and full. 

“You had better,” Sherlock answers, too far gone on hormones and adrenaline to stop himself, and John smiles. Sherlock expects to be dragged into a rough, greedy kiss to match the energy of their dancing tonight, but John surprises him. He backs away from Sherlock’s lips, and returns to his jaw, leaving a long, slow, wet,  _devastating_ string of kisses there, hands sliding under his shirt and along Sherlock’s back. 

When their lips finally do meet, it’s slow, and searing, and Sherlock can’t feel anything that isn’t John’s lips on his. He locks his arms around John’s shoulders as tightly as he can when he feels his knees get weaker beneath him. 

They find their way slowly, steadily to Sherlock’s bed, John’s warm strong weight covering all of Sherlock, lips never far from lips, both of them stripped to touch and soft and skin, and Sherlock drags his fingers everywhere he can reach, learning John’s body in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to. When John’s hand starts inching towards Sherlock’s crotch, he pulls back with a whispered “is this okay?” and a questioning look. 

Sherlock responds with a growl, tipping John over to strip off his pants, followed quickly by his own. It’s not the most graceful, shimmying out of the tight elastic briefs that are worn by necessity under their stage clothes, but it’s forgotten the second John puts his hand on Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock curls in at the shock of it, the spike of pleasure at a simple touch. 

They arch together, move in synchronicity as easily here as they do on stage. It doesn’t take long before it’s too much, so much pleasure, and Sherlock is shuddering to pieces with a cry, feeling the pleasure pulse through all of him. With a broken “oh, fuck,” John comes then too, head tilted back, neck exposed and eyes shut, and it’s beautiful. Tension utterly spent, Sherlock collapses half on top of John. 

Their breaths are warm and moist in the air as they lie there together. Sherlock vaguely notices that all his limbs feel only partially connected to the rest of him, and that this is entirely pleasant. He can feel the chemicals still pulsing through his brain, passing waves of relaxation through the rest of him, and hums happily into John’s bare chest beneath his cheek. 

After a while, John takes in a deep breath. “Okay then,” is what he says. 

“Just okay?” Sherlock asks with a silly grin (he feels relaxed and easy and _silly_.) “All that posturing with Victor, you get me in bed with you and it was just ‘okay.’”

John huffs a laugh as he presses his nose into Sherlock’s hair. “More than just okay… I’m gonna grab something to clean us both off. Be right back.” Sherlock groans as John pulls away and collects his pants, but immediately registers the unpleasantness of cooling cum on his own skin and realizes John has the right idea here. John returns to hand Sherlock a flannel he’s retrieved from the restroom, not meeting his eyes, standing awkwardly in just his pants. “Should I…go?” 

“John Watson,” Sherlock says sleepily as he tosses the towel off the bed. He yawns. “If you are not back in my bed in five seconds, I might just have to call Victor in here after all.” 

John grins at him and climbs under the covers with Sherlock again (Sherlock is pleased that there is no lingering possessiveness in his expression at the mention of Victor). He switches off the light on his way and Sherlock experiences, for the first time, the sheer perfection that is falling asleep in John Watson’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Taboo_writter and Samui_san for song ideas in this chapter!
> 
> There'll be more of John's POV in the next chapter for those of you out there who are fans. Hoping to get this story finished before the fourth series airs.
> 
> Kadlebug made some [AWESOME art](http://romantic-sherlock.tumblr.com/post/154221144156/kadlebug-been-keeping-up-with-this-johnlock-fic) for this fic! Thank you so much again, it's GORGEOUS.


	7. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get around to defining their relationship, and a first date is had.

It’s early morning. So early that there’s not even sunlight leaking through the curtains. John blinks slowly awake, extra warm, something tickling at his nose. Curly hair. _Sherlock’s_ curls. Sherlock, half on top of him and breathing even and sweet into his neck.

It feels… like perfection.

Before long, Sherlock begins to shift too, rubbing his cheek along John’s chest as he lifts his head to look blearily up into his face, still blinking out sleep. (It’s adorable, and a potent bolt of affection strikes right through John's heart at the sight).

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock’s voice is rough, but still soft in the blue darkness of the room, the only light leaking in from the crack under the door. He smiles lazily, and John honestly wonders if he can die from adoration as his heart squeezes in his chest. Before he can think about it, he tugs Sherlock up for a kiss. It’s not the best tasting, first thing in the morning, but it’s still _Sherlock_ on his lips.

“Good morning,” he rumbles back, feeling a first stirring of arousal as he rolls the man over. The kiss is turning wetter, and rougher, and John is smoothing his thumbs across Sherlock’s bare hipbones, when he hears rustling at the door and they both freeze.

“Oh BOYS!” There’s a beep as someone accesses their room and John glares as Irene enters with a smirk. “This is your wake-up call. Only half an hour ‘til the bus leaves, _lovebirds_.”

“How did you even get in here?” Sherlock grumbles as he rolls out from under John, collecting some clothes and moving towards the adjoining bathroom, a bed-sheet wrapped around himself.

“Did you know that the concierge is a dreadful flirt?” Irene lifts a plastic room key in one hand to tap against her lips. “She’s not a bad kisser, though,” she continues, and bounces into the bed beside John with a grin on her face.

As the door shuts on the bathroom, Irene puts a hand on each of John’s cheeks and just sort of screeches as she smooshes them. “FINALLY! I had enough of those gross sickly sentimental songs. Write some sexy numbers now, _please_ , something that I can actually _dance_ to.”

John laughs as he rolls out of bed and gathers his own clothes from the floor. Because even though Irene interrupted an...intimate moment, John can’t fault her enthusiasm. She isn’t half as pleased as _John_ is with what happened last night.

Still. “Did you really just crash in on the two of us to be smug, then?”

“Of course, not.” Irene raises her voice pointedly, “I have something to share with Sherlock! This is his room, isn’t it?” The bathroom door cracks open, and Sherlock appears, already dressed and toothbrush in mouth.

“G' on, then,” Sherlock says around the toothbrush, sharing a curious look with John. (His eyes linger on John’s bare chest in a very satisfying way).

“The fan-boards are blowing up since the performance last night! Mostly about Vic coming out, but also about you, Sherlock. Walking off stage like a boss and stealing the show. They apparently don’t sleep because there are a few new blogs popping up dedicated just to you.”

“What?” Sherlock rinses his mouth quickly so he can come look at the tablet Irene is scrolling through.

“This is my favorite post, personally.” Irene turns the screen around so they can both see. It’s a photograph of what’s obviously a younger Sherlock and Molly, perhaps 14, dressed in their school uniforms and smiling awkwardly up at the camera. Sherlock’s hair is a wild tangle, and his mouth is full of metal braces.

Sherlock groans, “Where on Earth did they find that?” and John doesn’t get a chance to examine it further because Irene scrolls down. Whoever found this photo has zoomed in, comparing some fuzzy pixels in the background to a (now) vintage poster of The Watsons. It’s unmistakable. Underneath they’ve captioned it, _He’s one of us!!!_

“So? Tell us. _Are_ you a Wat-head, Sherlock?” asks Irene with a lethal smirk.

“Oh didn’t you know Irene?” Feeling smug to have already known this bit of information, John pats Sherlock on the shoulder. “It had to come out eventually. I’ll leave you to Irene while I go pack.”

\- - -

It’s still mostly dark when they file out of the hotel, so there are only a few dedicated fans waiting by the bus to greet them. It’s nicer this way: John gets to spend a bit of time with each of them, take photographs if they want, and actually learn their names. It’s especially gratifying when they have him sign their pride flags or _Out and Loud_ album art. It reminds him that all this craziness has a real-life impact.

It’s also just  _damn funny_ to see the look of shock on Sherlock’s face when a young girl shyly asks for his signature too.

When the pair of them finally make it onto the bus, everyone else has already boarded and they’re greeted with wolf-whistles and applause from the rest of the company. Lestrade shouts, “You go, Johnlock!” only smiling wider when John flips him off.

John eyes Sherlock warily as the cheers die down and they get settled into their usual seats beside each other. He and Sherlock haven’t even talked themselves about what this is going to mean for, well, _them_. They’re certainly not going to talk about it when there are upwards of twenty curious eavesdroppers around them. ~~~~

Luckily, once the bus gets moving and people start to quietly chatter or nod off, it doesn’t feel so very different from the other long bus rides spent in each other’s company. Their arms are pressed a bit closer than usual, but John enjoys the simple intimacy.  They’re sitting in peaceful silence as the sun starts to rise through the bus’s windows, when John hears a low moaning, “ _ohh”_ beside him, and whips his head to Sherlock. Sherlock straightens, alarmed, as he digs in his trouser pocket and pulls out his mobile phone. _“Ohh,”_ the phone chimes again, and John sees “<3  **Victor Trevor** ” flash on the screen.

“What the hell?” Sherlock mutters, swiping in his password and glancing sideways at John. “When did he have time to take my phone?” Sherlock skims the messages, snorts, and hands the phone to John.

 **< 3 Victor Trevor:**   told ya hed like it. you def owe me a drink next time you’re on the west coast.

 **< 3 Victor Trevor:**   or a date, if youre tired of watson by then

“I am going to murder Irene,” Sherlock says. “Right after I figure out how to change that text alert tone.”

John laughs, and takes out his own phone to open Snapchat. “I’ve a better idea, c’mere,” he tells Sherlock, and sneaks on arm around his waist. He sticks his tongue out at the camera, and Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s cheek as he takes the picture.

Once the two of them have giggled over what to caption it and sent the photo to Victor, Sherlock breaks out in an enormous yawn.

“Time for a nap then?” John asks. “We were up pretty early this morning.”

“Mmmm,” is all Sherlock says as he snuggles closer into John, tucking his head beside John’s neck.

John settles in for a sleep of his own, his head rested on Sherlock’s, for the long drive to L.A., the sun rising bright and golden all around them. 

\- - -

Sherlock is still blinking sleep out of his eyes when they arrive in Los Angeles and John is put into a cab and whisked away to Conan’s studio. Between that and the day’s concert, there’s no time left for the two of them to have a conversation about the status of their relationship.

Part of Sherlock wonders, why should they? This arrangement is working perfectly well, should it continue. It’s obviously something more than sex, perhaps something less than a defined romantic relationship. Sherlock is fearful that if he asks for more, John will give him an answer he doesn’t want.

He’s still thinking about this the next day, sitting cross legged on John’s bed with his computer in his lap, John dozing beside him in the hours between rehearsal and the performance. John must be completely exhausted, between all the travel, the filming, and…possibly a bit less sleep than usual. Sherlock grins at the thought, thinking back to yesterday’s performance. It had been _electric_ , every touch on stage, every second of eye contact.

Afterwards, John had dragged him by the hand to his private dressing room, ripped off his clothes, lifted him onto the counter and fingered him until he came. It was _amazing_. Sherlock had no idea that sex could be so good. That he would actively _crave_ it. He’s just contemplating waking John for another round when a message from Molly appears in his inbox.

It says, _Either John Watson is a pillock or_ _you’ve been holding out on me,_ with a link beneath.

Sherlock glances down at John, wondering what she means. He clicks.

A video of John’s Conan interview loads quickly, the show's theme shouting out of his laptop’s speakers before he has the chance to stifle them. John startles awake at the noise.

“What're you—that’s my interview.” John heaves himself up with a groan and leans his cheek against Sherlock’s upper arm. “Oh God, are you really going to watch that?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Molly sent it with a cryptic message.”

“I am definitely going to get that woman one day.”

“You can certainly try. Now shush, I’m watching.”

The cheers of the studio audience have settled down, so Sherlock sets the laptop between them and puts the video to full screen. John looks sharp as ever on camera, in a blue waistcoat and with his hair styled.

“John Watson, welcome to the show! A lot has changed since the last time we had you.”

John smiles wryly. “I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about, Conan. Would you remind me?” There are laughs from the audience.

“Your coming out video, _Out and Loud_ , for one, which is on tour now. And it looks like you set a trend! Earlier this week, Victor Trevor used one of your concerts to announce his own bisexuality.”

“Well. You know Victor, always trying to prove he’s better than me. Not that he succeeded.” John winks into the camera and the audience cheers. “But in all seriousness, coming out is a hard decision to make, whether or not you’re famous. I think both of us just decided we may as well make it fun, too.”

“Speaking of fun, one thing we haven’t heard much news about lately is your love life.” There is a chorus of “oohs!” in the audience as John smirks out at them. It’s fascinating to see this from John: the cocky celebrity version of himself he presents to the public. Beside Sherlock, the real John is busy covering his face and groaning.

“This is so embarrassing,” he says. “Do we have to watch?”

John on screen says, “That’s true, and I’d like to keep it that way, ta.”

“The least you can do is tell me one thing.” Conan leans in, and John mirrors him. “I'm sure my audience would love to know…are you single?”

John starts backwards like he hadn’t expected the question. “Um. I would say—that is to say,” John is brushing a hand through his hair nervously on the screen, stuttering as he tries to put together a coherent response. “Well, there’s someone. I mean we- he and I- we haven’t—“ There are cat-calls from the audience as Conan looks between John and them, delighted. “I mean – I don’t kiss and tell?” John tries as a last attempt to gather the tatters of his celebrity façade with a weak smile and face flaming.

It’s _really_ not convincing, and Sherlock is utterly charmed. He glances over to the John beside him to find him fully buried in his hands, ears turning the same bright shade of red as he is on screen.

Looking back to his computer, Conan has climbed up onto his desk and the audience is going wild. Conan points into the camera. “John Watson just implied he had a boyfriend on _MY_ SHOW! Take THAT, Ellen!” Now on-screen John puts his face in his hands as well. Conan shakes his hips from atop his desk a while longer and the band plays, audience cheering all the while. Then the video fades to black.

Sherlock lets out a giggle. "You didn’t prepare for that question? What did you think he was going to ask?”

“I have no idea.” The sound of the words is muffled by John’s arms. “It caught me off guard.”

Well. This was all... quite illuminating.

Sherlock grins, and gently pries John’s arms away from his flushed face. “Well then, John. There’s really only one question I have for you.”

John looks over at him warily. “What’s that then?”

He feels flirtatious and giddy and brave, his heart full to bursting. “Am I your boyfriend?” John smiles slowly back at him.

“I dunno. Do you want to be?”

Sherlock takes a moment and pretends to think about it seriously, so John hits him in the head with a pillow. Sherlock laughs. “What? I have to give this due consideration. I’ve never _had_ a boyfriend before, you know. What do boyfriends do?”

John shrugs. “Go out on dates. Talk. Other stuff, I don’t know.”

“Hmm...Then it’s decided. You can be my boyfriend.” Sherlock bends down to plant a quick kiss on John’s lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock suspects he looks just as besotted as John does in that moment.

“Can I take you out on a date then?.” John asks thoughtfully.

Sherlock hums. “Haven’t been on a proper one of those before, either.”

The look John gives him says _How is that possible_ and Sherlock shrugs in response. “I grew up in a tiny town where you couldn’t really be _out_ , then went to a small university where all the men were rich, sons-of-bankers, stuck-up pricks.”

John gives him a soft look, and reaches out to tuck a curl behind his ear. “I’ll have to make it a good date, then. We have the night after tomorrow off, no concert. How about then?”

“Perfect.” Sherlock is going to lean in for a proper long snog when something occurs to him.

“Can I tell Molly? That you’re my boyfriend?” he loves the feeling of the word in his mouth and suspects he's going to be using it a lot.

“Yeah, 'course. You tell Molly everything.”

“You don’t mind? Victor told me a little bit about Mary. Well, about _A.G.R.A.”_ A dark look appears in John’s eyes, but passes just as quickly as he sighs heavily.

“What happened with Mary…broke my heart. Some days I thought we were going to be together forever. But when I look back on that time, I realize how much I never told her. How little I _actually_ trusted her. If I’d told her I was bi, I have no doubts it would’ve ended up in the press along with the details of our sex life and my sister’s drinking habit. Would’ve been front page news and I wouldn’t have been able to come out on my own terms like I did. So, I thought I loved her. But I didn’t _trust_ her.”

“Do you trust me, then?”

“Yes.” He says it without hesitation, face serious as he looks into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock thinks about this. About how lucky he is, to have gained the trust of this brilliant and private man. A man who had reason never to trust anyone ever again.

He can’t wait for their date.

\- - -

John takes Sherlock to the dodgy bowling alley he remembers visiting eons ago with Harry and Irene the first time they traveled through L.A. It’s not the most romantic atmosphere, but John has fond memories here, and they’re less likely to get paparazzi crawling all over them.

“Bowling?” Sherlock asks when he steps out from the cab. “Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?”

“You’re the one who said you’d never had a proper date before. I wanted to give you the authentic experience,” John teases, bumping his shoulder against Sherlock’s. “It’ll be fun. There’ll be beer, I’ll smoke you at bowling, and you can check out my arse when I bend over to pick up bowling balls.”

“You sound awfully confident. You don't know, I could be an excellent bowler.”

“Oh I’m confident,” John says, firing a wicked smile in Sherlock’s direction. It’s a relief, to be able to flirt openly with him. Not have to hide how he feels. Sherlock is his _boyfriend_ , and that might just be the best thing ever. “Now come along, boyfriend,” he says for the simple pleasure of saying it, and leads Sherlock inside by the elbow.

They bowl, eat bad pizza, drink mediocre beer, and have a terrific time. John flirts shamelessly and unselfconsciously to find out just how red Sherlock can get. Call it retribution for making him watch that awful Conan video.

John thinks this is how it must be to be a university student like the other blokes his age. It’s a bittersweet thought, and something wistful must pass over his face because Sherlock puts his hands on his hips and asks him, “What is it? You can't look sad on our first date.”

“I was wondering if this is what I’d be doing every weekend. Bowling and eating bad pizza with my boyfriend. If I wasn’t always dodging paparazzi. If I wasn't celebrity John Watson: superstar.”

“If you weren’t John Watson the Mad Prince,” you mean?” Sherlock teases, pulling John to his feet. John looks up at him quizzically. “The Mad Prince from your song. The one who travels all around to perform tricks for his peasants?” Sherlock explains.

“Oh!” John laughs a bit incredulously. “That. But I’m not the Mad Prince, I’m the Pauper!”

Sherlock looks confused now. “Does that make _me_ …”

“The Prince,” John confirms. “It’s a bit soppy but to be fair I wrote that when I was drowning in what I thought were unrequited feelings for my brilliant—“ John doesn’t finish the sentence because Sherlock pulls him into a kiss.

“I’m the Prince?” he asks, face moving only an inch away, a silly smile on his face.

“Of course you are,” John breathes back, dazed. Sherlock smells _really good_ at this distance. It’s making John’s head fuzzy. “Running about with your deductions and your violin. You’re like a real-life fairy tale.”

“Oh…well, I think you’re a prince, too.” Sherlock says it shyly, and the tender spot in John’s chest that now belongs to this man _aches_. He doesn’t know how much of this he can take, so he just wraps Sherlock up in a tight hug, tucking arms around his waist while Sherlock wraps his own around John’s shoulders. Maybe it’s risky, being this close while they’re out in public, but neither of them cares.

When they finally break apart, Sherlock’s phone chimes. Sherlock reads him a message from Irene, inviting them out to a club.

Sherlock smirks at John. “If bowling was your idea for our first date, then we ought to try mine, next. Let’s go dancing!” Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock is dragging John out of the bowling alley by the hand and looking for a cab. “What do you say to making some headlines tonight, John?”

“I’m not dressed for a club!” John protests, looking down at his cardigan and jeans.

Sherlock pauses his search to cast a critical eye over John, eyes sharp and calculating. In a flash, he’s pulling off the cardigan, untucking and unbuttoning his plaid flannel shirt. “Roll up your sleeves,” he instructs as he starts fluffing his fingers through John’s neatly styled hair. John knows better than to disobey and soon Sherlock is stepping back to admire his handiwork, running his tongue across the seam of his lips. “Mmm, yes. Much better.”

“What about you?” John asks as Sherlock turns once again and hails a cab, looking over Sherlock’s tight emerald denims and casual coat.

Sherlock pulls off his outer layer to show off the v-neck striped tee beneath. “I’ll just borrow Irene’s eyeliner. It wouldn’t do in London, but for the L.A. club scene, I should be fine.”

\- - -

When they arrive all John can process is an explosion of neon and sequins. “Is this a gay bar?” he asks.

“Irene invited us, of course it is!” Sherlock cries looking thrilled. John laughs, enchanted by Sherlock's enthusiasm.

Soon, Irene arrives at the door to drag them inside. She ushers Sherlock off somewhere immediately, scowling at John when he tries to follow. With a shrug, John finds an open seat and tries to look inconspicuous, appreciating the overwhelming loudness and _heat_ of the club, the freedom of movement on the dance floor. It’s a rush just to be here, where it feels like everyone is celebrating being themselves. This is yet another experience he didn't get to have while he was pursuing his career.

Just as he’s growing uncomfortably aware of the speculative eyes surrounding him, Sherlock returns.

And he looks…ethereal. The flashing green and purple lights cast dramatic shadows on his face, and Irene has lined his eyes to perfection. She must have put something on his skin as well because he's genuinely  _glittering_.

“You look fantastic!” John shouts over the music, a bit in awe. This mad fairytale prince is _his_ , for tonight and maybe, if he’s extremely lucky, for a happily ever after as well.

Sherlock beams and takes both his hands to pull him onto the dance floor. Sherlock is in his element here, without all the strict moves that Greg imposes on them night after night. He improvises fluidly with the pounding of the music, unrestrained and graceful and gorgeous, and John does his best just to keep up. He keeps his hands on Sherlock’s waist or back or shoulders at all times, unwilling to let him more than a foot away. 

Maybe the DJ saw John, or maybe not, but soon the dance version of _Out and Loud_ starts playing over the speaker system, blasting through John’s system in a rush of happy adrenaline. He and Sherlock are just two more of the crowd shouting along, bouncing with the words: _I won’t ever let you make me feel ashamed / Because I’m loud, and I’m fierce, and I’m queer --/ And the whole god-damn world / is gonna know my name!_

The lights are flashing pink and purple and John feels giddy and weightless as the song finishes and the club erupts into cheers. John and Sherlock give little bows to the small crowd they’ve accumulated. A few people shake John’s hand or give him a slap on the back, but mostly they’re left alone.

When they’ve been dancing longer than John knows and the back of his shirt is sticky with sweat and his cheeks red with exhilaration, John leads them off the dance floor. When they’re adequately hidden from most of the club, John tugs Sherlock’s hips against his own and leans up to growl into his ear. “What do you think then. Back to the hotel?”

Sherlock gasps, “Scandalous! We’ve only been on one date, Mr. Watson.”

John raises his eyebrows suggestively up at Sherlock before grinding their hips together in emphasis. “It’s either the hotel or we’re _really_ going to be making headlines tonight.”

\- - -

Over the next few weeks, they sneak out for dates and outings whenever they can. Sherlock and John decide, with the blessing of his PR team, not to give any formal statements regarding their relationship until they want to. That doesn’t mean they don’t have a hell of a time teasing their fans in the meantime.

Blurry camera-phone montages of their dates are plastered all over the tabloids (which result in several irate phone calls from Mycroft). Sherlock has a blast once he finds out how many followers he’s accumulated on Instagram. Once, he posts a backstage photo he’d taken of John from behind (well, _of_ John’s behind) captioned “ _enjoying the views in Cleveland! <3”_

Sherlock is overworked and exhausted and definitely not getting enough sleep. And he’s _happy_.

Then Mycroft calls.

He and John are sitting on a sofa together in a hotel lobby late at night after a performance, tea in hand, and Sherlock rolls his eyes at John as he picks up. “Mycroft, for the last time, _stay out of it_. I’m an adult, I can decide who I-”

“That’s not why I’m calling.”

Sherlock snaps his jaw shut. Mycroft sounds…off. Like he does after a big political loss or a failed election rigging. “What’s happened?” he asks.

“It’s father. He’s in hospital.”

“What!” Sherlock cries, and beside him John leans in questioningly. Sherlock distractedly increases the volume on his mobile so John can hear. “What happened, is he--”

“He tripped on the walkway at home and hit his head. He’s going to be fine.”

“You’re sure he’s going to be alright?” Sherlock asks persistently, heart a little faster than normal.

“Yes, they’re just keeping him in hospital overnight for observation. He’ll be off his feet for a while, though.”

“Mummy’s always telling him to salt the drive more.” Sherlock says absently as John rubs soothing circles into his back and listens

Mycroft sighs heavily over the line. “Mummy is in hysterics. You need to come home and take care of her. Help around the house while Dad gets back on his feet.”

“What? Why me?”

“There have been complications with my Green Card. I’m grounded in Moscow until negotiations…settle down. I’ve arranged everything with your Mrs. Hudson. You’re to gather your things and take the red-eye to Heathrow tonight.”

“I can’t just leave! This is my _job_ , I signed a contract!” _I don’t want to leave_ , Sherlock doesn’t say.

“Don't be such a child, Sherlock,” Mycroft snaps, and Sherlock flinches away at the harshness of the tone. It's all too familiar from their childhood spats. After a long silence, Mycroft sighs again. Sherlock can practically see him kneading at his temples. “Forgive me, little brother. But you’re needed at home. It’s all sorted, Mrs. Hudson will give you the details.”

Then there’s a dial tone and Sherlock can only look blankly at the phone in his hands.

John’s hand covers his tentatively. “You alright?”

“My dad’s in hospital.”

“I heard,” John tells him. His brows are furrowed as he looks concernedly at Sherlock. “…You know it’s okay? You need to go home and take care of him and your mum.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes against the variety of emotions he’s experienced in the past few minutes. “I don’t want to go,” he whispers, aloud this time, because at least that much feels true.

John turns Sherlock’s face and cups his cheeks so that he can plant a kiss on his forehead and look right into his eyes.

“Everything’s alright. It’ll be okay.”

Sherlock repeats it back to him, pressing his forehead firmly against John’s.

“It’ll be okay.”

\- - -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> The next chapter of this is going to be the final one for this installment, but I'm going to make this a series so I can explore all the niggling bits I didn't get to cover what with the rush leading up to series 4.  
> x


	8. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! For now, at least.

As the car pulls up in front of his childhood home, the vague annoyance Sherlock was feeling disappears with the sight of his mother out front. Clutching his bag and violin, Sherlock approaches her warily. She looks vacant, dressed in just a light jumper as she scatters salt on the ground. More than half an inch of the stuff is already covering the entire walkway.

“Mummy?” he asks softly, putting a hand on her elbow.

She startles and blinks up at him confusedly. “Sherlock? Aren’t you meant to be in America?”

“Mycroft called me about Dad getting hurt. I came home to… help take care of things.”

“Oh… that wasn’t necessary dear… I think the neighbors said they're going to bring your dad home from hospital in a bit.”

She goes back to scattering salt. “Mummy, what are you doing?”

“Salting the drive. I’m always telling your dad….” With a few more crumbs, the last of the salt is on the ground. Mummy looks at them blankly for a long moment. Sherlock is unsettled. His mother is usually so _sharp_ , it’s disconcerting to see her like this. Gently, he takes the empty bucket from her and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

 “Let’s go in for some tea, okay?”

Inside, the house looks just as it always is the week before Christmas: cluttered with holiday lights and cheery decor. It feels wrong, at odds with the worry in Sherlock’s gut as he sets his mother down at the couch and moves to the kitchen to prepare tea. “You said Dad is coming home today?” he calls.

“In a few hours. The neighbors… said they would...” her voice trails off, and Sherlock decides to leave her in peace until their tea is ready. He goes through the motions mechanically. Tries not to worry. Tries not to wish there were someone else here to help, someone who knew better what to do.

Mummy takes her cup without a word when Sherlock finally delivers it, taking a seat beside her. They sit in silence, not drinking their tea.

\- - -

When Sherlock starts awake, it’s dusk outside, and he can hear Mummy’s voice in the kitchen. Silently, he steps to the doorway, kneading at a crick in his neck as he peers around the corner. His dad is there, sitting at the head of the kitchen table with a pair of crutches propped up next to him. At first inspection, he looks exhausted but otherwise healthy, only a pair of butterfly bandages obscuring the scrape on his forehead.

Unlike this afternoon, Mummy is now energetically moving around the kitchen as she sets the kettle to boil, tidies up imaginary messes, and rambles about the state of the NHS these days. As she passes by the table to set down a sandwich and a glass of water, Sherlock watches his dad reach out and snag her arm.

“What are you--” Mummy begins as his dad brings her captured hand to his mouth and plants a kiss on her knuckles, looking up into her face.

“Sit with me.”

“I have to—“

“You _don’t_. Come sit.” He holds her gaze until she surrenders. As his dad pulls on her hand and pats his legs, she steps between them to perch on his lap, tipping her head against his. Sherlock watches for a while as his dad rubs her back, the pair of them just resting against each other.

“I was so scared,” Mummy whispers, so soft that Sherlock almost can’t hear. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you…”

“I’m _fine_. Doc thinks I’ll only need the crutches for--”

“--a few weeks. I know.”

It’s not exactly rare, for him to see his parents like this. They’re very affectionate with each other, and ridiculously in love, even after decades bickering together and the various trials of raising two genius sons. But just this moment, Sherlock feels like he’s intruding.

He creeps back to the sofa, fakes an enormous yawn, and walks to the kitchen a bit louder than he normally would. Mummy is standing from Dad’s lap, wiping at her cheeks. She goes to pour the tea as Sherlock takes a seat adjacent to his dad’s.

“Sherlock!” he claps a hand around Sherlock’s shoulder cheerfully. “Wonderful to see you, son. I want to hear all about America.”

“How are you, Dad?” Sherlock asks, looking at him critically. “You look thin. Did they feed you enough in hospital?”

Mummy scoffs as she settles into the seat on Dad’s other side. “Like you can talk. All that dancing and activity you do and you hardly eat! And don’t think that just because your Dad’s home from hospital that you’ve gotten away with anything. We _will_ be talking about those tabloids that have been floating around.” Her eyes are sharp on him again, and Sherlock is torn between relief that she’s acting like her old self, and trepidation at the future interrogation.

\- - -

It’s surreal to be back home. The last months seem like a blur of questionable hotel rooms and sparkling performance spaces. Now, he’s waking up in his own bed each morning. He takes care of the house, helps his dad get around town when he needs to, and skirts Mummy’s probing questions whenever possible.

John and Irene call regularly, and he even gets a few postcards with red lipstick stains, but it’s not the same. He wants to be back out on the road with his friends.

And, no matter how much they manage to talk on the phone, he still misses John terribly. There are only two more weeks of performances and the tour be all over and then Sherlock _really_ doesn’t know what their future will hold.

A few days before Christmas, Sherlock is thinking these thoughts sulkily as he drags his duvet into the sitting room. John has an interview on Jimmy Fallon that he wants to watch. To his surprise, the television is already tuned to the right station, and his dad is on the sofa watching the opening monologue. Gathering his duvet, Sherlock wordlessly settles in beside him.

When John enters through the blue curtain, Sherlock can’t help but smile. He’s wearing a maroon suit with suspenders, his chin stubbled and hair all fluffed up like he hates (but makes him look undeniably sexy). Sherlock barely pays attention to the interview itself, mesmerized as he is by the sight of John laughing, John tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, John licking his lower lip as he thinks about how to answer a question.

Sherlock is watching appreciatively as John takes his jacket off and proceeds to dominate at “Faceketball” when his dad finally says something.

“I’ve seen more than a few of these videos. The kids at work send them to me, you know. Your John acts different, when these funny interviewers ask about you and him.”

Sherlock bites down a smile as he glances at his dad and then back to the screen. He may be a man of few words, but his dad is much more perceptive than most people gave him credit for.

“He does,” Sherlock confirms.

They sit beside each other, watching in amusement as John is declared the winner and does a lap through the audience, the miniature basketball backboard still attached to his head.

“Are you two serious, then?” his dad asks next.

“I…think so. Leaving the tour…complicated things.”

He waves a hand like that’s unimportant. “But…do you _love_ him?”

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t hesitate, and his dad nods once.

“Good. Make sure he knows. Your mother and I want to meet him soon.” Apparently satisfied by the short conversation, he heaves himself from the couch, batting away the help Sherlock tries to offer. Sherlock listens as he makes his way slowly up the stairs.

Pleased, and trying very hard not to think about his mother and John in the same room, Sherlock snuggles into his duvet and rewinds the show to watch again.

\- - -

This… isn’t what John was expecting. It’s smallish, and has a golden wreath on the door, and he can see Christmas lights through the windows. It's so _ordinary_. It reminds him of the time he got a glimpse of Sherlock’s parents and he was shocked that such an ordinary couple would have spawned such an extraordinary son.

He lets himself wonder again whether out of the pair of them, John isn’t the mad one after all, before he raises a hand and knocks on the door. There’s some shuffling and a long pause before it opens and John is faced with the man he recognizes as Sherlock’s father.

John puts a polite smile on his face and clutches at his bag nervously. “Hello, sir. I don’t know if you remember meeting me, I’m-”

“I know who you are,” he says with a wry smile and a wink. “Come in, then. Sherlock’s room is through the sitting room, second door on the left.” He herds John through a doorway and into a small but cheery sitting room.

Wrong-footed, John tries to stammer out an inquiry after the man’s health, but all he gets in return is an amused brow-raise (an expression he knows very well on a different face) and a swat to the back of his legs from the man’s crutches that sends him stumbling down the hall to Sherlock's room.

“Right. Okay.” And then John is in front of yet another door, still wondering if he isn’t mad, except this time he doesn’t hesitate in knocking because he knows that Sherlock is just behind this one.

“What!” shouts Sherlock’s annoyed voice, and John knows he’s in trouble because he finds the irritability in his tone kind of adorable. “I drove you to town this morning, you’ve already had lunch, and tea, what could you _possibly_ need?”

John hears a faint scoff from Mr. Holmes, who’s seated himself on the couch down the hall. John poses himself carefully in front of the door and calls, “That's the greeting I get? And I came all this way to see you!”

There’s a moment of dead silence followed by a crash and then the door is flung open, and there’s _Sherlock_ , hair mussed and eyes wide. John relaxes slightly from his smug pose. “Hi. I know I should’ve called ahead but I just wanted to-oof!” and then John can’t speak anymore because he’s wrapped in the tightest hug he’s possibly ever received and it feels _wonderful_ so he just wraps his own arms around Sherlock and squeezes right back.

Sherlock is sputtering, not finishing any sentences, “John! What – how – the tour! You can’t – what are you-”

John pulls back from the hug just far enough so he can stop Sherlock’s panicked rambling with a quick kiss, thumb brushing at his jaw. “We had the night off, since we’re performing tomorrow  _and_ Christmas.”

Sherlock still looks worried. “But you-“

“Sherlock!” shouts Mr. Holmes from the next room. “For God’s sake, you’ve done nothing but mope all week and the boy flew from America to see you! Stop complaining!”

John snorts as he looks down the hall to see the side of Mr. Holmes’s head, his gaze directed at the telly as he flips through stations. With a glower, Sherlock pulls John into his bedroom and firmly shuts the door.

“Your dad’s doing better, then, I take it?” John says, and Sherlock turns the glower on him. Which is just unacceptable, as is the several inch gap between them at the moment, so John walks straight back into Sherlock’s space. God, Sherlock is so warm and close and solid and John had _missed him_.

Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s. “You _flew to England_ because you had a day off? Just to see me?”

“In my defense, I’m stupidly rich and I missed my boyfriend like crazy.” Sherlock laughs delightedly (which makes John’s smile start to ache it’s so wide).

After another soft kiss, just because he can, John leads Sherlock towards the bed so that John is sitting and Sherlock is standing in front of him. He takes a deep breath, because although he rehearsed this in his head a thousand times during the trip here, he’s still nervous.

“There’s actually another reason I’m here. I wanted to…talk to you about something.” Sherlock freezes as his eyes dart across John’s face, posture suddenly stiff, so John hurries to continue. “It’s not a bad thing! At least I don’t think so. I just… didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

“Okay…” Sherlock is looking very intently down at him, so John avoids his gaze as he carefully picks over his words. He directs them at the lovely pale hands that he’s holding in his own.

“I was wondering...The tour is over after New Year’s Day. So, I…wanted to ask. What your plans are? Next year?”

John glances back up at Sherlock to see him biting the inside of his cheek, still looking warily down at him. “I’ve. Registered for classes at Oxford.”

“Okay!” John says, nodding, because that’s what he had expected.

“Should I have talked to you first? Is that what you’re asking? The tour was great, of course, but I don’t actually think I want to be a professional dancer. Not long term, in any case, and it’s been _months_ since I’ve had access to a proper lab, I put all sorts of experiments on hold this semester.” Sherlock is biting his lip, and now he’s the one looking away to avoid John’s gaze, although he doesn’t withdraw his hands from John’s. “What about you? Did you have…plans for the new year?”

“Well…I usually take some time off after a tour. It’s in all my contracts.”

“Okay…” Sherlock is watching him carefully again, eyes flicking between John’s as John tries to remember exactly how he had wanted to phrase this.

“And I was thinking that, well. If I can’t go ten days not seeing you without losing my mind and getting on a plane to wherever you are…”

There’s a smile growing on Sherlock’s face.

“I thought. And. I want you in my life. Every day. For a long time. I wrote a whole stupid lovesick song about how I’d follow you anywhere, for Christ’s sake. So just let me know if this is too much too soon, but I thought maybe I could…sort of… follow you to Oxford? If you’d let me?”

The small smile on Sherlock’s face breaks into a full grin (no teeth, all lips and it looks really kind of goofy and John instantly adores it). “I’d like that,” he answers to John’s immediate relief, and he climbs onto the bed, knees straddling John’s lap, face looming closer to John’s for a brief open-eyed kiss. He takes a deep breath and looks straight into John’s eyes. “I want you every day, too. For a long time.”

“Okay,” John breathes, meaning _brilliant_ and _amazing_ and _thank God._

Sherlock continues, “There’s just one thing. You shouldn’t call _The Madman ‘_ stupid,’ that’s _our song_ you’re insulting.”

“Is it?”

Sherlock nods seriously down at him. “Working on that song together was part of our early romance.”

John laughs with relief just as much as happiness. “In that case, I’m glad you’ve agreed to this, _my mad prince_. Because I’ve already been in touch with a real estate agent.”

Sherlock’s fingers are combing through the hair on the back of John’s head thoughtfully. “What are you even going to do in Oxford? Aren’t many stadiums to sell out.”

John strokes his hands up Sherlock’s legs and sides, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock shuddering slightly in response. “Well, it’s close enough to London when I need to stop by the offices. And there’s actually another fun thing about being a stupidly rich celebrity. It turns out I have some strings to pull with the university admissions office.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise and he settles back against John’s legs. “You’re…enrolling?”

“Well, I never got a chance to do the uni thing properly. And some of the biology and creative writing courses look really interesting. Do you mind? That I didn’t get in on merit?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes “Of course not. You're clever, you probably _could've_ gotten in on merit. Besides, that campus is full of genuine idiots whose rich parents bought their admittance. They’ll be lucky to have you.”

John grins at the thought, still stroking Sherlock’s back. “Might be kind of fun. Go to uni just like anyone else. Well, sort of.”

Sherlock hums vaguely in agreement, apparently getting distracted by John’s petting, his hands creeping under John’s shirt as he begins to kiss along John’s neck. He rolls his arse on John’s lap and John instantly begins to harden under the attention. “Sherlock!” John gasps as the man’s hands dip into the back of his trousers. “We can’t shag here. Your dad’s right down the hall!”

Sherlock extracts his nimble hands and spreads them across John’s chest, pushing until John is flat on his back and then directing the attention of his lips to the other side of John’s neck, fingers unbuttoning John’s shirt. John lets out a soft groan, biting his lip to muffle it.

“Then I suggest,” Sherlock says as he crawls back down John’s body and undoes his trousers, “that you not make too much noise.” With that, Sherlock takes out John’s cock and swallows it down. John stuffs a hand into his mouth as his eyes roll back in his head and his hips thrust up. “Wait!!” he manages to gasp out. “Condom! Do you—“

“Bedside table,” Sherlock murmurs across the tip of his cock, stroking it steadily to full hardness and John thinks he is going to lose his mind as he grapples a hand towards the nightstand.

He thinks he does actually lose his mind when Sherlock sucks him through a mind-bendingly intense orgasm. And again when Sherlock _won’t stay quiet_ as John is returning the favor and he ends up with half his hand in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock moaning around his fingers.

When they’re both floppy and satisfied, John stretches out on his side with his head propped up on his hand, a smile he knows must look dopey on his face.

“Am I going to be the one to mention the elephant in the room, then?”

Sherlock mirrors John’s body language, propping himself up with a questioning sound.

John gestures to the far corner of the room, just past Sherlock, where an ancient-looking cardboard cut-out of his younger self is propped behind a low table. Sherlock turns his head curiously to look, yelps, and rolls out of bed naked to shove the figure into a wardrobe, John’s giggles accompanying the movement. With a dramatic groan, Sherlock crawls under the duvet, head and all. “Can we pretend you didn’t see that?” comes his muffled voice.

“C’mon, Sherlock. I already knew you were a fan before we met. Just didn’t think you were one of _those_ fans.” John smirks as the taunt has the desired effect and Sherlock’s reddened face appears indignantly from beneath the blanket.

“Please, it was entirely innocent! You were a very handsome fourteen-year-old, and I was a young impressionable gay boy!”

“Why d’you still have it though,” John laughs.

Sherlock sniffs. “It happens to be the reason Molly and I became best friends. I gave her the set of you and Harry for her birthday one year and she  let me keep the one of you. Said she liked Harry better. Honestly, you’d think she’d have figured out sooner that she didn’t like boys.”

For a moment, John considers letting the subject drop. Then he changes his mind and asks, “And the lipstick marks? Were those Molly too?”

“Shut UP!” Sherlock shouts, burrowing under the duvet again as John erupts into another giggle-fit.

\- - -

Sherlock is pretending to slice vegetables as he cranes his neck around the corner. Mummy had dragged John and Dad into the sitting room and forbid Sherlock from joining them nearly ten minutes ago.

“You’re making a mess of those beets, Sherlock.” He turns to glare at Molly who’s perched on the kitchen table, having invited herself over for dinner when she heard that John was in town. “You might have more success with them if you stopped trying to eavesdrop.”

“Fine, you do it then,” Sherlock says and thrusts the knife towards her. Rolling her eyes, Molly steps up to the counter and begins to dice efficiently through the beets with scary accuracy. Sherlock watches in a mixture of horror and mild awe.

“What are they _teaching_ you in that pathology seminar?”

Molly winks at him with a dark glint in her eye just as John finally enters from the sitting room. Sherlock is about to launch an interrogation, but Molly steps towards John first, knife poised just shy of threateningly between her hands.

“Ah, John. All done with the parent talk? That’ll make it my turn. Sherlock, go away.”

Sherlock stands taller, affronted. “I will not!”

Molly throws an annoyed glare in his direction. “Fine. You can listen.” As she turns to John, it's suddenly as if she fills up the little kitchen, the bright turquoise jumper not detracting even slightly from the terrifying image of her twirling a knife between her hands as she approaches John. John straightens but doesn’t step away as Sherlock probably would have.

“It’s…nice to see you, Molly. I didn’t hear you get in.” John licks his lips as he glances towards Sherlock.

“I’ll keep this short and simple, John,” Molly says, ignoring the platitude and Sherlock grins at the performance. “Sherlock is my best friend. If you hurt him in any way, I will know, and I will come after you. I have access to a bone saw and I know how to use one.”

Blinking a few times, John gives a nod and reaches out a hand to shake Molly’s. “That’s a deal.” Looking between her and Sherlock, John asks “What happened to the quiet fangirl I met in September?”

Molly raises an eyebrow. “You started dating her best friend.”

With a chuckle John replies, “Fair enough,” and Molly relaxes back to her typical posture, returning to the salad preparation. John joins Sherlock at the kitchen table and winks at him before he continues, “So. I hear you had a crush on my sister? She’s single, you know.”

Sherlock snorts, and when Molly turns around, cheeks pinker than before, the murder in her eyes is directed at Sherlock. “Oh my _God_ you did _not_ tell him about that. John, you’re too good for the bone saw, I’m using it on Sherlock.”

\- - -

Dinner came and went, and with it, all too soon, went John as they all walked him to his waiting car.

John promised Sherlock’s dad again to look up some obscure Motown band and gave him and Mummy each a firm handshake. Sherlock had watched, amused, as Mummy stoically pretended she wasn’t utterly charmed by John (any lingering frostiness at him had dissipated the moment she found out that Sherlock was returning to Oxford and bringing John along). As his parents had walked away, Molly had simply directed two fingers at her own eyes and then at John’s _(I’m watching you),_ winked, and followed them inside. That had left Sherlock to cling to John as long as possible, as they reminded each other they’d only be separated for a couple more weeks, until John _really really_ had to go. Sherlock had stood in the cold and watched until the car’s taillights dipped over a hill and disappeared completely.

Sherlock is thinking about this moodily as he puts aside his Christmas presents (nearly all practical things he’d requested in writing) and picks up his laptop two days later. He’s in the sitting room as his parents exchange their gifts, glumly loading some pirated footage of John’s Christmas Eve performance on his laptop. The sight of John dressed as a Christmas elf is somewhat consoling, but he wishes he had been there in person. He’d make a _fantastic_ elf. The only bright side to this holiday is that Mycroft is still stuck in Russia.

“Sherlock?” his dad calls after a while, and Sherlock reluctantly pauses the footage and removes his earbuds. “We have…one last present for you.” Sherlock straightens, looking between his dad’s poorly suppressed excitement and Mummy’s poorly disguised disapproval. This is unusual. Typically Sherlock can guess all of his gifts weeks before Christmas. His dad reaches into a pocket on his cardigan and pulls out a folded paper. Sherlock rushes over to him and quickly opens it.

“A plane ticket,” Sherlock breathes, and looks down at his parents. “A plane ticket to Miami. _Tomorrow_.”

“Yes!” his dad cries, beaming at him. “For you to join your young man on the last few days of the tour. I know you didn't really want to leave in the first place.”

“But what about—don’t you need me? To help around the house?”

“Mr. McCarthy and his son offered to help when we need it. You shouldn’t be stuck here with us old folks.”

Sherlock, barely believing this, asks, “Mummy?” for confirmation.

“It’s not like you have a gift for house-keeping anyway.” Mummy huffs out, scowling when Dad elbows her in the ribs. “Yes, we both agreed. He’s a nice young man. You should go be with your John.”

Sherlock throws his arms around both of their necks for a quick hug, before straightening. “I’m going to call him now!”

\- - -

When he stumbles out of the International Arrivals gate, John and Lestrade are there to greet him instead of Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock had expected. John is wearing sunglasses to try and minimize the amount of attention they’re getting. Although it’s only been three days, Sherlock launches himself directly into John’s arms like it’s been years, and John staggers back a couple of steps as he re-centers his balance without dropping Sherlock. “John!” he shouts. “The concert starts in an hour, what are you doing here?”

“Yes, very nice to see you again, Sherlock,” grumbles Lestrade. They both ignore him.

“You think I’m not going to pick my boyfriend up from the airport?” John asks, grinning as he presses a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“Seriously, lads, there’s no time for that!” Lestrade says as he begins to usher them out towards the exit. “We’ve gotta get on the road if we’re going to make it through traffic. Opening band can only stall so long if we're late.” He holds up a garment bag. “Sherlock, you’ll be changing in the back-seat.”

Their car has just pulled up to the curb when they exit the airport, a familiar driver coming out to open the door, when Sherlock hears a shriek of "John Watson!" Startled, he turns to see a little girl (perhaps eight or nine years old) dressed head to toe in yellow hurtling towards them. She stops abruptly when a security guard steps in front of her, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“Oh!” she squeaks. “I’m sorry sir, I just wanted to talk to John Watson.” She then steps _around_ the baffled guard and up to John and Sherlock. “You are John Watson, right? And! OhmyGod! You’re Sherlock Holmes! The dancer!” she adds, wide-eyed (and oblivious to the way John signals the security guard to stand down). “I’m just, your biggest fan! We watched the _Out and Loud_ video in my dance class to talk about how ballet and contemporary music can be used together and it was amazing and I watched it about a billion more times since then!” Her big brown eyes, sparkling with enthusiasm, remind Sherlock acutely of a younger Molly.

Just then a woman, out of breath, comes running from the airport doors. The girl turns and beams at her scowling guardian. “Mommy! Look who I found!” Sherlock and John share a grin.

“I am so sorry, gentlemen,” the woman pants, looking frazzled and apologetic.

“It’s okay,” John tells her as he squats down to get on the girl’s level, ignoring Lestrade’s frustrated groan about being late as he throws up his arms and climbs into the car. “You're our biggest fan, huh? You’re kind of little for our biggest fan.” Sherlock watches, charmed, as John smiles and the girl giggles shyly. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Annie,” she says. John shakes her hand firmly.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Annie.”

The girl starts to speak very rapidly, tripping over some of her words. “I just, I really wanted to tell you, I just think it’s so cool and brave that you weren’t afraid to tell everyone that you like boys. And Sherlock! You love Sherlock, right? That’s what the big girls in my dance class say.”

“Yeah,” John says softly, glancing up to Sherlock as he does. “I do.” And John hadn’t told Sherlock that, that he _loves_ him, and Sherlock feels something like tears prickling behind his eyes.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Annie whispers to John, loud enough that Sherlock can still hear, and John nods. The girl takes a big breath. “You know how you like boys sometimes? Like, _like_ - _like_ boys? I think...I think I might... _like-like_ girls instead of boys.”

Reflexively, Sherlock turns to the girl’s mother, and sees that there are tears leaking down her cheeks as she smiles blindingly down at her daughter, a hand only half covering her mouth.

“That’s so cool,” John whispers back to Annie with a big smile. “Thanks for telling me. I think it’s fantastic.”

The girl’s mother clears her throat, voice a bit choked. “We need to get going, sweetie.”

“Okay, mommy,” Annie says at full volume, taking her mother’s hand and waving a sunny goodbye to Sherlock and John. They’re both standing there, stunned, when the mother tells them both earnestly, “thank you,” and the pair walk away.

The ride into Miami is quiet as they both think over what just happened.

\- - -

Several hours later, when they’re backstage heaving from the thrill of a performance and the audience is calling for an encore, John tugs Sherlock aside from the rest of the dancers.

“Let’s do _Mad Prince_. For the encore.”

“What? But…they’ll know it’s about _us_ ,” Sherlock tells him, startled.

“I know,” John replies seriously.

Sherlock thinks about hearing _Out and Loud_ for the first time. When John was still a stranger. He remembers feeling elated, and awed, and humbled, that anyone could be so brave. How it felt when he got to share that feeling with Molly. He thinks about the little girl they met this afternoon, that reminded him so much of his best friend when they were young.

“For Annie?” Sherlock asks John, taking his hand.

 “For Annie.” John beams up at him. “C’mon, I made the sound bloke pull a violin when I heard that you were coming back on the tour, just in case.”

“And I stole your music, made copies, and gave them to the band!” cries Irene, appearing out of nowhere. 

“I…don’t know whether to feel violated or grateful,” John tells her.

“Go with grateful!” Irene calls, skipping away just as quickly as she had appeared.

John and Sherlock walk back out on stage together to cheers. John says something to the lead guitarist as Sherlock tests out the violin. The song begins almost as Sherlock remembers it, except this time John sings it with dramatic gestures as he describes the pain and longing of the Pauper before he meets the Prince. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but as he picks up the violin part and John’s face breaks into a blinding smile, Sherlock can’t help but mimic it.

When the final verse ends, soft and sweet, John takes the violin from Sherlock and passes it off to a band member. With a silly bow, John offers Sherlock his hand, looking up through his eyelashes. It’s not until there are sudden cheers from the audience that Sherlock realizes how quiet they had been, spellbound by the music just like Sherlock. When Sherlock accepts the hand, John pulls him into position and waltzes him across the stage. Pretty soon though, the waltz devolves into more of a rhythmic swaying to the final notes, as John presses their joined hands to his chest.

John sings the final words to him, “My Mad Prince and I – I want you for happily, and for ever, and for after,” and Sherlock can’t help but lean down for a long, firm, kiss.

They break apart with a laugh when the audience’s cheers and shrieks grow loud enough that Sherlock has to cover his ears.

“Johnlock is go!” John yells into his microphone, lifting their joint hands, and Sherlock snorts, embarrassed, as he covers his face with his free hand. “Thank you, and good night everyone!” John shouts over the crowd’s renewed cheering. And then they race off stage, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this story, and especially to those of you leaving comments along the way! I am astonished at the response I've gotten from you all. 
> 
> Subscribe if you'd like to read more from this universe! I'm tentatively planning on some one-shots that I didn't get a chance to write in my rush leading up to the new series. There has also been someone who expressed interest in writing actual music for Out and Loud, so keep an eye out for that!!
> 
> <3 Lou


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